


Break Slow

by SlowMoRevolution



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But happier times are on the way I swear, Clexa got me like, F/F, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, It’s been 84 years since I wrote something, Maybe slowest burn is a better descriptor, Okay it gets real angsty, Slow Burn, Some of the crew have filthy mouths, Theater kids never grow up, They’re gonna make you a little crazy sometimes not gonna lie, Tries to be funny sometimes, gets a little angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 01:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 136,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17757098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowMoRevolution/pseuds/SlowMoRevolution
Summary: Gonakru Novais a small but prestigious theater company making waves in New York.  Clarke's best friend, Octavia, has convinced Clarke to audition for a new play they are producing, despite taking a long absence from acting.  What happens next?  Tune in to find out, kids...(Hint:  There’s a little bit of pining, and a whole lot of swears.  Er, maybe it’s the other way around...)





	1. In Due Time

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been entirely too taken with this pairing, and finally gave into the nagging gremlin in my head that kept shouting: "Just write it, already!" 
> 
> If I shouldn't have, forgive me.
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of PHOX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition...I know, I know. But I had a lot of ground to cover, and writing’s HARD. The turbulence will smooth out. Promise.
> 
> Thanks for giving it a shot!
> 
> I’ve got nothing but love for you beautiful Clexa folks. Keep it going.

In the end, if not for the storm, Clarke probably wouldn’t have gone through with this. 

She would have gone back to the loft, maybe worked on that painting she’s been trying to finish. Changed into a hoodie and some sleep pants, had some tea, and forgotten this notion before it had ever had the chance to muck up her day so spectacularly. 

She’d been fine, _fine_ — blank, even — free of the slightest ruffle of trepidation on the walk over. She’d listened dutifully as Octavia gave her final prep; what to expect, what to say, what she might be asked to do today. Her steady voice sinking Clarke into this waveless, pleasant void where tension couldn’t reach, and Clarke could just float, follow the motion of Octavia’s hands as they sliced the air, punctuating her points like spell casting.

And then they’d reached the door. 

And Clarke realized, _too late_ , all that serene nothing swishing around inside her was probably something akin to the shock a trauma victim feels on impact. Her soul gone numb to spare the host from agony. 

Because now…now, she can’t move. She’s just frozen to the sidewalk, blinking up at the “ _Gonakru Nova_ ” logo on the door, and her legs won’t fucking work. 

Beside her, Octavia’s talking, snapping her fingers inches from Clarke’s nose, but her words are garbled, mushed flat and useless by the apparent stampede of bison that’s taken up residence in Clarke’s head. All she can hear is a deep, swelling rumble, and she gapes at Octavia, her synapses ice cold, refusing to fire. 

(Distantly, though, Clarke registers her mom’s voice, ticking off symptoms. _“Stroke victims often report confusion, difficulty understanding, sudden weakness or paralysis of the limbs…”_ And she thinks: _Maybe that’s what’s happening here.)_

And then, a footnote: _Maybe I should be more concerned about that._

Octavia grips her by the shoulders and shakes so hard Clarke’s head wobbles from the force of it. It’s enough to kick start Clarke’s temper, at least, which — even beneath the haze — sparks at Octavia’s rough handling, and she instinctively pushes back at the other woman. (Who is a lot stronger than she looks, evidently, because the girl doesn’t even goddamn _budge._ ) Gradually, though, Clarke’s muscles unlock, and her friend’s face swims into focus. She heaves a shaking breath. 

“You with me now, Griffin?” Octavia asks, her fingers digging into Clarke’s arms. Her tone is pitched low, worried.

Clarke lurches free of her hold, moving a few steps away. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry. Just…sorry about that. I don’t know what’s going on with me.” 

Octavia considers her for a moment, shrewd eyes narrowing. “You sure? I mean, I know it’s got to be kind of mind fuck stepping back into all of this again, but — I’m telling you — this place…it’s different, Clarke. And they want to see you. You were invited here. It’s not like some cattle call where you’ll be throwing elbows with a bunch of green college dopes in there. It’ll be small, pros only. Maybe a few other actors. That’s all.”

“I know,” Clarke snaps, rankled less at Octavia’s attempts to soothe her and more at the disoriented feeling she can’t seem to completely shake yet. “I just…” A roar of thunder breaks above them, silencing Clarke and causing both of them to jump. She belatedly feels the wind picking up, the ozone smell washing in. 

_Ah. Right. Not snorting, phantom Plains beasts, then._ There’s a downpour brewing. 

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Clarke smirks darkly, pointing up at the sky.

“Oh come on,” Octavia sighs, rolling her eyes and dragging Clarke toward the door. “Stop inventing bad juju and just come inside. Be the brilliant, smarmy asshole you’ve always been, and they’ll love you.”

Clarke pulls them to a stop. “O, no, wait. I just…maybe I shouldn’t right now. Like, I’ve got a lot going on, commissions to finish, that art show in a few weeks. I don’t even know if I have the time to —“

“Clarke.” 

“—And, I mean, I know we worked on this, and I’m super intrigued by this play and everything, but…I haven’t done this in so long, you know?” 

“Clarke, seriously…”

“Maybe my little shutdown back there was something telling me —“

Lightning erupts overhead, and another trembling clap of thunder rushes down so loudly it is as if it’s aiming to obliterate creation. Both women shriek at the noise.

“Fucking hell, Clarke, just shut up and move already!” Octavia shouts, rushing Clarke toward the entrance with a rude, panicked shove.

Clarke stumbles into the glass door, throwing her hands up at the last second to catch herself, and leaves two smudged handprints on either side of the “Gonakru Nova” logo. Octavia smooshes into her from behind and they topple through the doorway just as the rain hits, cascading like war drums against the building. It’s going to be a while before that clears up. 

Octavia seems to realize this a beat behind Clarke. “See?” Tilting her head to the sidewalk outside. “Crisis over. Decision made. Besides, you’re kind of stuck now, anyway.”

Clarke flips her off — a completely automatic response — then further questions her ability to function like a rational human equipped with a smidgen of mature coping skills today. _Jesus. Get your house in order, Griffin._

Octavia relents, drawing closer. “Look, whatever…” She flicks her fingers at Clarke. “…this is, wherever it’s coming from…let’s just knock it down a _skosh_ and take a second to remember who the fuck you are, Clarke. Okay? You don’t run. Not once in all the time we’ve known each other. You may hide sometimes, but you don’t run. Don’t start today.”

Clarke groans and wipes a hand over her face. After a moment, she admits: “I just don’t want to make a goddamned fool out of myself in there.” Her voice barely a whisper.

Octavia reaches out, pulling Clarke into a careful side hug. “Hey…you won’t. I wouldn’t have brought you into this if I thought you would. I get that you’re freaked, and that’s understandable. But, seriously. You’re ready. You’ve got this, okay? It’s just like every other audition we’ve done together, and you’ve totally fucking got this, sister.”

Reluctantly, Clarke nods, her mouth still twisted into a grim line. 

Octavia shakes her lightly. “Believe it,” she says.

Clarke ducks her head, and nods again.

“Believe it,” Octavia demands, shaking more forcefully.

Finally, Clarke grins, shrugging out of Octavia’s grip. “Alright, fine! Jesus, what’s up with all the physical violence today, O? Lousy thug.”

“You inspire it,” Octavia shoots back. “And I’m cultured,” she protests, tugging at the lapels of her jacket and sniffing haughtily. She flashes a sidelong smile, all bright teeth and sass, before adding: “You dramatic twat.” 

Clarke smiles back, feeling a rush of warm gratitude for this ridiculous woman and her long, steady presence in Clarke’s orbit. Octavia is tough in a way Clarke wants to be. It’s never mattered to O how anyone looks at her. She is who she is, and _fuck you very much if you don’t like it._ She lives and triumphs and falters with full-throated abandon, heedless of the world’s opinions. Wiped clean of the queasy doubt that always seems to be tumbling around in Clarke.

Octavia’s outfit even projects indifference — a rumpled dark blue corduroy jacket that’s been a few places, seen some travels. There’s a faint cigarette burn over the left pocket. A Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Soft black leather pants that hang low on her hips, scuffed combat boots. Her long, dark hair pulled back, scattered with haphazard braids. On anyone else, the entire look would strike false, an affectation. Like she was trying too hard to appear slouchy and rock-star cool. But Clarke knows the jacket is a years-old favorite, a hand-me-down from her older brother Bellamy. And Octavia actually listens to Zep; she didn’t just buy the t-shirt, _goddamn it._ (She’s put more than a few of their songs on a Spotify playlist entitled: _“O’s Slow-Mo Superhero Entrance Mix”.)_

O refuses to try. Hell, sometimes she just refuses to play altogether. She’s just herself, authentically and unapologetically. At moments, it makes her the easiest — and hardest — person to love. But Clarke is so thankful she’s _her_ person.

A young woman enters the room, brightening when she sees them. “Octavia! Hey! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you all come in.” She sits at a small reception desk and pulls out a tablet. “Let me get you started on all the preliminary sign in stuff.”

“Hey, Harper,” Octavia says, nudging Clarke to the desk. “This is Clarke. I found her out front looking for the sex shop around here that sells that really good vegan lube? Thought you might be able to point the way.” She waggles her eyebrows at the woman behind the desk.

Clarke drops her face into her hands. 

“I kid, I kid,” Octavia giggles. “She’s here for the same reason I am.”

“To dim all that’s bright and pure in this world? I assure you, I am not,” Clarke replies, peering at them through her fingers. She raises up. “Harper, I’d apologize for her, but — since you two have clearly met before — you probably already know she thinks she’s hilarious sometimes. It’s very nice to meet you, though.”

Harper grins, then squints at Octavia. “I’m starting to get why you and Raven bonded so quickly, Octavia,” she says. Octavia shrugs. To Clarke, Harper explains, “Raven thinks she’s hilarious, too. Spoiler: she’s mostly just mean.” 

“Comedy is subjective,” Octavia replies.

“Wait…Clarke Griffin?” Harper asks, tapping at the tablet in her hands. 

Off Clarke’s eyebrow lift, Harper rushes on, elated. “Shut. Up. Oh my god, I loved _Skytide!_ I was _obsessed_ with that show in high school. Like, went to the cons, cosplayed, all of that. Obsessed.”

Inwardly, Clarke cringes, but she keeps her smile intact as Harper gushes. _Skytide._ The post-apocalyptic drama she’d starred in right after college. 

Much like today, she had auditioned for that part because Octavia pushed her into it, finding an open call notice online and forcing Clarke to submit an audition video with her. Later, when they both got callbacks, O drove them up from UCLA to Burbank in her rusted Honda, _The Who_ blaring from the speakers. Octavia had playfully grasped Clarke’s arm before they walked into the studio, saying: _“When you become a fucking TV star today, Clarke, remember me. We’ve seen some shit together, girl.”_

They wound up working on the show together for five seasons. 

And _Skytide_ wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t great, either — a fascinating story sieved through clumsy TV writing and a squabbling production team into something that, at times, turned face palm-worthy. It was what it was: one of those shows designed to attract the 18-35 year old demographic, centered around a bunch of good-looking teenagers who somehow find themselves responsible for keeping humanity from completely winking out. _Like you do._ It developed a loyal fan base, which was the highlight of the whole thing for Clarke, really. The massive enthusiasm for the show. She’d suddenly been tossed into the as-yet-unknown-to-her world of con schedules and Tumblr memes, but she acclimated fast, and coasted on the excited attention the fans gave her. It was _thrilling_ and fun and she soaked up all that positivity like water.

Harper’s lost fangirl is surfacing the longer she rambles. “—…and I’m pretty sure my cousin got her boobs signed by the dude who played your kind of _Big Bad_ in Season 3…—“

“Sounds about right. That guy was gross,” Octavia slings at them as she crosses the room.

“…at the San Diego con in, like, 2014, I guess? Anyways, we followed you guys like it was our job for a few years.” Harper pulls back a little, slightly self-conscious now. “So…God, this is so crazy, right? You two have been friends all this time?” She’s looking at Clarke when she poses the question, but Octavia answers instead.

“Yeah, nah. I’ve known this mess since college. Found her innocent ass wandering around the Theater Department way back when, and have been corrupting her ever since. Clarke was, like, this pent-up, dorky Biology major when we met.”

“Hey, that’s not exactly — ” Clarke defends.

Octavia rolls right over her. “— I mean, she went to Science Club meetings and shit and wouldn’t look anybody in the eye. She listened to Celine Dion, for Christ’s sake.”

“Lies. You are full of lies…”

“…Such a cry for help. So I’m sort of responsible for her ‘rom-com’ transformation. Also the one who led her down this raggedy road of sporadic paychecks and bad behavior and early-onset madness. By the way — since you’re a fan and all — she sells art now, too, and it’s fucking stellar. But if you want a CG original, you better get on that soon, Harper. Once she cracks, the market value on her work’s gonna get steep.”

Clarke slowly rotates in place and tilts her head at Octavia. “Just…why?” She pauses, searching. “Nope. That’s really all I’ve got, O.”

“No kidding?” Harper peers at Clarke like she’s trying to unbox the nerd still _(very much so, Clarke ain’t gonna lie)_ clattering around in there. 

Clarke shrugs. “Yeah, she basically trashed my life. Security…retirement…food…basic medical care. Who needs that nonsense, am I right?”

Octavia played her part, sure. But she isn’t all to blame. 

Clarke had endured years of her mom’s hand wringing over her decision to enroll in art and theatre classes at school. Her mom, a director of the surgical residency program at Cedars-Sinai, couldn’t possibly understand how her daughter entertained the thought that something so frivolous — _The arts?! God, Clarke_ — could translate to an actual career. _“Have your extracurriculars if you want them,"_ her mom warned, _“but stick with the Life Sciences degree.”_

Except there were these marrow level places in Clarke that surged and seethed and wouldn’t keep still, no matter how much she tried. It was as if she’d been born with an extra sense, one that could _just_ feel every real and beautiful and terrible thing waiting out there, begging for the right brushstrokes or words to draw them out. Growing up, all that extra knowing left her off-kilter and a little too serious, a tourist among her peers. She could parse the local culture and language but just barely, just enough to get by. Enough to make friends or go on dates, to keep herself on the invite lists. 

But below it all, she was still very much a girl who spoke better in paints and charcoal and loved the theater because she felt more at ease in her own skin when she could pretend to be someone else. When it was just her hanging about, she could detect that crackling turbulence tripping along the outskirts of her day-to-day so acutely it made her stagger sometimes. It was like a secret riot happening out in the margins, all _gut-punch joy and world-ending desire_ …the kind of stuff that kills lovers and loners and anyone who ever peered up from the gutter or burned for something. She could plunge right into if she could simply get the static and the _have-to’s_ to clear.

Then she and Octavia got cast in _Skytide,_ and Clarke felt her future’s rusted hinges give way just a little. She didn’t want to hope for too much more than that tiny squeak of potential, because _how long could it last, really?_ The first few episode scripts she read were sort of flimsy, they didn’t have any huge celebrities on the show’s roster…the whole thing would most likely get scrapped fast. House flies have longer life spans than most new TV series. Clarke sincerely believed she would get her _“this one time, I was on TV”_ story to trade later on, and then she’d be yanked back to what she had been before. A girl with two buried parents — her father in the ground and her mother in her work — who was expected to do the reasonable thing. _(It’s your future, Clarke. Don’t be irresponsible.)_ Diverting from that path would disappoint her mom too harshly, and Clarke’s only other (and more understanding) support had been snatched away by an aneurysm her freshman year. That was that.

So, inside, she settled for a compromise. After _Skytide_ was over, she would get a job. Something she cared about, something her mom would find respectable enough to not throw so many digs at during their sparse talks. But it would be something that didn’t ask too much of Clarke, either, with a schedule that allowed weekend turns at art shows and maybe the occasional play. A job where she could hover in the halfway, and still get to steal sips of her dreams now and then. 

And she would learn to be okay with it.

But then the show took off.

Suddenly, Clarke’s options stretched wide and _dazzling._

Possibilities snaked through her fingers like tack, and she tugged _hard,_ careened into all that new independence with a hunger she didn’t know ran so deep. For the first time ever she wasn’t forced to keep one foot wedged in the creative world and one in the practical, where her oddness raised eyebrows.

“You know you got the better end of that deal, you asshole, so don’t even. I spared you from becoming, like, a high school science teacher who irons her jeans and goes _glamping_.” Octavia stands behind Clarke and drapes her arms over her shoulders, kissing her on the cheek with an exaggerated _mmmmmMMWAH!_ “And you got me. Plus a little sci-fi stardom, too. That’s, like, leveling up to Beyonce in nerd society, isn’t it, Clarke?”

Clarke shakes her head and shoves her hand in Octavia’s face, pushing her away.

“Well, even if it did pull you to the dark side,” Harper says, motioning to their surroundings, “it must have been amazing to be a part of that. Your entire cast always seemed to be having so much fun.”

Octavia glances at Clarke uneasily, and Clarke ruffles slightly at the wary understanding she sees in O’s expression. She hates that they will always carry this between them — how certain aspects of those days will be forever lodged in their shared history like an incendiary device that could trip at the slightest provocation. How she knows Octavia will _always_ step back to let Clarke handle things when they come up in conversation. She hates it, but she has to appreciate the gesture.

Clarke directs a flat smile at Octavia. “Yeah. It had its moments,” she finally responds. 

Octavia winks at her.

She can tell by the disappointed twitch of Harper’s mouth that she wants more…everyone knew _the Skytide kids partied, and there must be stories._ But Clarke’s not going any further than that. Not today. Not when she’s already so on edge.

It’s true enough, anyway. It did have its moments, until she slipped into a bloody internal rebellion that fucked everything up. Clarke’s very own _Age of Enlightenment._ (In reverse.)

And once she took the blinders off, she found a few things waiting for her. 

When _Skytide_ became a hit, Clarke discovered a different L.A. than the one she’d been living in before. How the city opened right up for those young and gorgeous and famous enough to get on the tour. When she first started going out with Octavia and her other cast mates, Clarke was usually one of the first to leave, slipping away early with an excuse, despite the heckling it cost her. She was still a bit serious, after all. Splintered at the edges. She wasn’t used to the type of fawning suddenly dropped on their group, the intent with which people followed their movements in those places. Eyes licking over them, offers at every turn. People wanted to get close to them, stand inside their circle just to be seen in it. It was unnerving. 

Gradually though, she had a good time…uncoiling under the low light of clubs, after parties. Allowing herself be a little reckless after so much time held apart from the crowd.

But Clarke grew bolder. The nights grew longer, more frequent, became every night, and she got caught up in a blur of drinks and drugs and letting go in larger and larger pieces, doing things she would sometimes remember after and _tilt,_ rocked hard with shame. 

Something had roared up in her back then, something with plague in its blood — berserk and spitting heat. She’d been unleashed. And she couldn’t seem to slow it down, much less stop it. After a while, she just didn’t care as much about trying anymore. So Clarke just _flew._ Learned what she could send across a room with not much more than an interested glance and a nod between her and a stranger. Lived for that delicious, unspoken moment right before _Oh, it’s on…_

Gave herself over to flashbulbs and pulsing bass, sweating bodies pressed tight against her on dance floors, in back rooms, and once — when she’d been so _gone_ on rum and MDMA she’d actually blacked out for two days — in the damp alleyway behind a Korean grocery, her dress rucked up over her belly. (That night it had been a DJ she picked up at _Avalon Hollywood._ A swaggering woman who fucked her into the shape of a bruise — all saliva and bites and thrust — interspersing rough kisses with romantic declarations like: _“I can’t believe I’m banging the Sky Girl right now.”)_

 _Drugs are glamorous, kids._

She got sloppy, the show’s quality declined, and all those possibilities she’d clasped to her chest when she had started out just withered, rein by rein. Replaced with a depression that yawned wider and wider inside her as the seasons ticked along, leaving her unable to remember why she felt so ecstatic over the opportunity in the first place. 

She stopped looking people in the eyes again.

And ultimately, she lost the last couple years of Skytide’s run stumbling lit and loud all across Los Angeles. Simply…vanished. Tucked into a hard-wearing, nonstop, filthy fucking _bash_ cut with idiotic mistakes and screaming and broken promises instead. It all just piled up and up and up until finally…Clarke fell. 

Came to all at once, panting. Upended. Shaken out. 

Her show cancelled. Savings depleted. Bridges still smoldering behind her, a reel of her last season’s phoned-in performances gripped in her fists to serve as a resume. 

She was also alone, save for the one person who would still take her calls at that point. Octavia.

Clarke had appeared on Octavia’s doorstep one night…lost, red-eyed, and miserable…and O had just gathered her up — no judgment. Told her they were getting out. She’d been tipped to a lead about joining a relatively young theater company making waves in New York, and Clarke was going, too. No argument allowed. _(“L.A. blows, and we both need this, Clarke.”)_

A change of scenery, where Clarke could regroup. Rethink. Maybe figure out how to apologize to all the people she’d hurt during her time in the dark. 

A place that didn’t itch as badly, the specter of a _Sky Girl’s_ descent snapped tight over it.

In the reception area, Harper slaps Octavia’s arm, the loud _pop_ of it drawing Clarke’s attention. 

“I’m kind of pissed at you right now, Octavia. When you said you were bringing someone today, you could have at least warned a girl. I mean, this is _Clarke Griffin._ She saved the human race from extinction.”

“What? I helped too, you know,” Octavia defends, rubbing her arm.

Harper waves her off. “Eh, you were a side character. “

Octavia clutches her heart and makes a strangled noise.

“Plus you always made trouble for my girl, here,” Harper continues. “Clarke, I know this is totally unprofessional, but can I take a picture with you? My best friend will straight up _die_ when she sees it.”

Clarke laughs faintly, feels those old ghosts ripple then settle against her ribs.

“Alright, but on a couple conditions. No rude tags, and make sure I look pretty before posting that anywhere.”

Harper beams at her. 

**************** 

Later, while Harper guides Octavia through the sign in process, Clarke takes in the reception area. She’s been to a few productions on the theater side since Octavia obtained her spot at _Gonakru Nova_ , but this wing serves as the business office for the company, and Clarke appreciates the obvious care they’ve taken in creating a welcoming, unpretentious atmosphere within the space. 

It’s unexpected in a place with such a reputation for high standards and innovative productions, the _“we’re better than that”_ philosophy the company promotes. _Gonakru_ has an indelible weight to it, something she’s watched transform Octavia since she joined their ranks. The loyalty and pride O’s puffed up with when she gets home from work, the excitement lighting through her any time she talks about what they’re doing here. It’s well-earned devotion, though. The shows Clarke has seen have been stunning. Brilliantly acted. Thoughtfully directed. 

So she’s a bit surprised at the layout of this room, which seems more suited for a corner coffee shop than the company’s office. She thought they would choose a more intimidating design, something meant to starch the senses. _Straighten up and behave, we’re serious here._ However, the furnishings are modern but comfortable, the lighting is warm, and the walls are painted in stylish, bold colors with sections of exposed brick. It’s cozy, almost. Nice.

On one wall, a large screen plays a loop of still shots from the company’s past productions, interspersed with pictures of the staff and their bios. Below that, a quote, which Clarke recognizes is by Neil Gaiman, painted in swirling script: _“The world always seems brighter when you’ve just made something that wasn’t there before.”_

And below that, a smaller inscription. Stark, and lonely: _“For her, for always.”_

Clarke stares at the second line, turning over those four simple words in her head.

_Huh._

_What it must feel like, to swear a promise like that. To have someone so precious to you that you could._

Harper calls her to the desk. 

******************

They are placed in a waiting room just past a long hallway leading from the front reception area. It’s elegant in the way old buildings in New York are, hints of its former grandeur peeking through: high tin ceilings, ornate, hand-chiseled carvings adorning the doorways. Contemporary decor laid respectfully over the history below. The wooden floors creak underneath their feet.

Harper tells them to break a leg before she leaves them, thanking Clarke again for the pictures. It took five tries before they managed one Harper was pleased with. (Mostly because Octavia kept poking into frame to wag inappropriate hand gestures behind them until Clarke shooed her out of the room.) 

Clarke and Octavia slide into chairs, trying not to fidget too much. Octavia has turned all business now, straightening her spine and quieting the moment they’d cleared reception. It’s been a while since Clarke has seen O’s serious actor face, and it drives home the fact that she’s about to walk into an audition for the first time in years. She sobers, tries to breathe normally. _Shit just got real in here._

Down the hallway, the door crashes open, thudding against the wall and ripping Octavia and Clarke out of the bubble of calm they’ve managed to generate. 

Seconds later, a young, auburn-haired girl rushes into the doorway, frantic eyes landing on them as she sputters: “Sss-slow? Slow…burn?”

She glances at Octavia, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Octavia stares back, her face a stone. “Not really my scene, no.” 

The girl huffs once and hauls her pleading look to Clarke, who feels compelled to at least offer _something_ helpful with the full force of this girl’s quivery desperation now trained on her. Apparently, her brain translates this into shrugging hugely and muttering what sounds like: _“Whaa-um?” Shit. Way to shine, Griffin._

The girl drops her head and whimpers. No saviors here. She fumbles for her phone, scrolling with shaking fingers. “Damn it, where is it…we’re sooo late. I don’t remember the…slow…slow…” 

In the distance, the door opens again, and a woman’s voice filters in, growing stronger as she approaches. 

The girl blanches, scrolling faster. Sweat has started to bead above her upper lip. She lobs a hail-Mary at Clarke, who, all _‘whaa-ums’_ aside, is clearly the stronger ally in the room, and whispers: “Auditions. Slow whatever. Auditions. Here?” 

Whoever is click-clacking her way down the hallway toward them has shaken all the conjunctions right out of this kid. She’s _terrified._

Clarke gives her a sympathetic grin and nods. _“Break Slow,”_ she whispers back.

The girl blinks at her. Clarke’s grin fades.

“That’s the name of the play.” 

The disembodied voice is almost on them, and the girl stands frozen. Well, almost frozen. She can’t seem to stop nodding at Clarke now. It’s like she’s rebooting. _Critical overload. Default to factory settings._

Clarke holds up both of her hands as if gentling a spooked animal. (Which, really, she isn’t far off base with that one, given the way this girl is dismantling in front of them.) “You’re in the right place.”

Finally, it registers, and the girl deflates in relief. “Thank you. My god, thank you —“ 

She’s broken off by a willowy blonde breezing through the doorway, sunglasses still on and her phone pressed to her ear. “That’s because you let them get away with that, Ryan.” She practically hisses the words into her phone. 

She pivots to face the girl, points to the room and mouths: “Here?” Off the girl’s furious nod _(bless that poor child)_ , the woman moves further into the room, shooting a cursory glance over at Octavia and Clarke before brushing past them. 

She’s impeccably dressed: black trousers far too fitted and double-stitched to be rack bought, a flowing red silk blouse which falls and flatters in all the right places, a patterned scarf draped tastefully and _just so_ across her neck. Her dark blonde hair in loose waves, touched with masterful highlights. She looks _styled._ (By comparison, the simple black pullover sweater, grey pants, and Chelsea boots Clarke’s sporting makes her suddenly feel as frumpy as a _JC Penney_ model.) 

“You know I would never let someone treat me like that on a shoot, regardless of how many Emmy’s they’ve won. Sometimes, you need to push back, and I think you’re there, sweetie.” 

She’s speaking too loudly for the size of the room, pacing only about six feet away from where they are sitting. Unrolling an edgy hostility into what should be, by established audition etiquette, a quiet space intended for preparation and concentration. 

And though Clarke may still be a little fresh on this circuit again, she instantly recognizes it for the obnoxious move it is — a shoddy attempt at psychological warfare. A ploy to unsettle the other actors, and announce to anyone within earshot that she’s _somebody in this town, so fuck you and your Emmy’s._

Next to her, Octavia’s knee begins to bounce, and Clarke knows she’s irritated. 

The auburn-haired girl — _an assistant, maybe? Of course this woman would drag her assistant along for this, just more evidence of her ‘somebody’ status to flaunt_ — has posted herself at the door, shuffling awkwardly, waiting for some kind of direction from her employer. She flicks a jittery glance between Octavia and the long-limbed actress, who has now slowed her pacing to a saunter, adding an exaggerated, bored (but utterly graceful, Clarke notes in a weak moment of _ugh, naturally_ ) twirl each time she changes paths. 

“That’s the thing, though,” she says, one hand drawing a lazy pattern in the air as she continues her passes across the room. “You can make them hear you. You’re just choosing not to.” 

Her speech bears a smug, divested quality, as if the recipient of her advice is just too _simple_ to appreciate what she’s telling them. 

Octavia shifts to Clarke, shoulders gone rigid, and inhales audibly, flaring her nostrils. Clarke can practically _see_ Octavia chewing on the smackdown she’s about to unleash on this woman. This could get ugly quick. Clarke winces.

“O, please don’t. Don’t do it,” she pleads, voice hushed. 

She looks to the harried assistant for help, but the girl’s eyes fall hastily to her phone and she turns away, putting her back to the whole mess. _Really, kid? Well, then. Consider our rickety alliance severed, asshole._

When Octavia pushes out of her chair, Clarke tries to grab for her hand, but Octavia dodges her. 

“Alright, so there’s this thing called ‘professionalism’. Big word, I know, and maybe you’re not familiar with it, but —“ Octavia begins.

At Octavia’s outburst, the other actress whirls toward them, finally pulling her absurdly wide sunglasses off her face. Octavia halts, drawing up in surprise.

The woman’s eyes flit over Octavia once, and she slowly lifts a sculpted eyebrow, as if she cannot quite fathom someone as scruffy and _clearly West Village_ would dare interrupt her conversation. 

It’s the unsubtle, condescending expression she wears that cements it for Clarke. _Echo North._

Beside her, as if on cue, Octavia says: “Echo?” Her voice still sharp with annoyance.

Years ago, before Clarke and Octavia landed their spots on _Skytide,_ the three of them had worked together on a small film directed by one of Clarke’s college roommates. They’d only filmed for approximately three weeks, but Echo made that brief shoot so downright miserable for Clarke and Octavia the memory still holds. 

Echo worked hard. Showed up on time, and knew all her lines. But she complained about _every bloody thing._ Gave unasked-for script notes, grumbled about the rainy weather during filming, criticized their meager budget. And she gossiped incessantly, her suspicious gaze constantly roving for weak spots, ammunition, anything she felt she could use against the cast or crew if needed. She was always in a corner somewhere whispering secrets, stirring up tension. So tangled up with insecurities and arrogance that both Clarke and Octavia were instantly repelled, and spent most of the shoot simply working around her, rather than with her.

Since then, Echo had gone on to score a few recurring parts on TV shows, enough to garner some decent name recognition in the business. Most recently, she’d been cast as one of the leads on a grisly cable network horror series. Clarke had never watched an episode, but it was one of those shows so popular it couldn’t escape notice. She frequently spotted images of Echo’s blood-spattered face online or during some random late night talk show. It seemed she’d gleefully built a career out of playing the villain everybody rooted against, and Clarke couldn’t imagine a more fitting niche for someone. She was, (even though Clarke kind of loathed acknowledging this, too), also strong and sinewy and strikingly attractive, which never hurt anyone’s prospects in Hollywood. 

Clarke, well acquainted with how life could dole out unfair shakes, shrugged it off. 

But, oh, it burned Octavia up. The first time Echo’s flawless hair and shimmery copper eyes appeared on screen during a promo — slaying vampires or chasing demons or whatever the fuck it is her character does, Clarke doesn’t even know — Octavia had thrown a microwave burrito at their TV. Then she’d downed a fifth of vodka and spent the rest of the evening tearfully deconstructing all the reasons she hated loving her work to Clarke. _(“I create, you know? I do honest, hard work, trying to tell stories that mean something, really mean something, and I can barely afford mid-shelf booze. And she just, like, spouts a shitload of drivel on this flaming garbage show and waves her tits every once and a while, and she gets big, fat bundles of cash thrown at her. People fucking worship her. That’s not right, Clarke. In no world is that right. There’s no art in that.”)_

And now here she stands, mere feet away and staring at them both, an invader in what Octavia has come to consider her home. Clarke’s earlier trepidation about the situation flipping sideways has quickly bloomed into full-blown dread. 

Because Octavia’s looking at Echo like she might actually _tear her apart._

Noticing this, Echo’s assistant flees to a chair in the far corner, disappearing behind her phone screen once again. (Clarke imagines she’s probably stacking her chips on Octavia in this scenario. Any smart gambler would, given the way O’s left eye is twitching at this moment and that ugly vein throbbing at her temple.) 

_Plus the kid doesn’t seem like she’d take a punch for this stretchy bitch, no matter who was swinging._

“I’ll have to call you later, Ryan,” Echo trills, obviously delighted at this new turn of events. She ends the call without waiting for a response. She looks Octavia over again, and seems to be at least wise enough to see O has her _gunning-for-a-cage-match stance_ on, because her face shifts immediately, and when she speaks, her words drip with artificial cheer. “Octavia…” she drawls, “my god, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

Her eyes slide over to Clarke, who struggles not to flinch. “And Clarke? Clarke Griffin? I didn’t even know you were still doing…” She waves her hand at the waiting room. “All this. Weren’t you, like, just part of an exhibit at one of those new hipster galleries in Soho? I thought I’d seen something about that…” 

Before Clarke can even take a breath to reply, Echo rounds on Octavia again. “And you! I heard you were in with the theater crowd up here. Is this where you’ve been hiding out?” 

Octavia seems as overwhelmed by her rapid-fire questions as Clarke, turning to her with the same dazed expression Clarke usually only sees on O after too many shots of what she lovingly calls: “her signature Widow Makers”. It’s like she’s so offended by all of this she just can’t figure out how to even _begin._

And Clarke can’t help what happens next. She feels it bubbling up, but against the whirlwind of anxiety Echo’s managed to pull them under in less than, _what, 60 seconds?,_ her mind has simply cut tethers and _run._ She opens her mouth to respond _like the actual adult she could have sworn she’d parked in this spot a minute ago,_ and nothing except these hysterical, high-pitched giggles fly out. The sound is so jarring and ludicrous and — if Clarke’s higher senses were anywhere in the vicinity at this point — _completely fucking embarrassing_ — that it makes Echo actually vault back a step, startled.

It’s enough to break Octavia out of her weird rage trance, though, and after a slow shake of her head, and one glance at Echo’s horrified expression, she collapses against Clarke, laughing hard. “Oh, Christ, man…your face,” she wheezes, pointing at Echo. “I wish you could see your face right now…” 

So, of course — because this is the day the universe has obviously deemed _‘no fucks given as to how Clarke wanted all this to go’_ — that’s precisely when the stage manager rounds the corner, clipboard in hand, to call them in for auditions. 

She pauses in the doorway, a slightly older woman with ashy blonde hair, severe features, and a deadly authoritative air, and assesses the _absolute fucking spectacle_ Clarke and Octavia are making of themselves right now. 

Gratefully, Clarke’s manic giggles have returned to whatever fourth-dimension _Hellscape_ from whence they birthed. But she just can’t seem to stop laughing. 

And Octavia’s doubled over _howling_ , one finger still jabbing at Echo like she’s accusing her of witchcraft. 

They look like a couple of school yard goons in an anti-bullying PSA. 

Clarke is mortified. She straightens up, somehow stifling her laughter, and swats at Octavia. 

When Octavia spies the stage manager, she jerks upright, too, wiping at her eyes and clearing her throat. “Anya…he-eeey! Hello,” she croaks.

The stage manager just glares at them for a long, terrifying moment. “Octavia,” she finally gruffs. She nods once behind them, to Echo. “Ms. North.” Her eyes cut back to Clarke. “And you must be Ms. Griffin.” 

The way she says it lets Clarke know, without question, Anya is already woefully underwhelmed by her. _Awesome. Thanks for this, universe. Good looking out._

Anya gestures at Octavia with her clipboard. “You’re on deck first, Octavia. All set?”

Octavia bounces in place a couple times, shaking out her hands, and nods. Without another word, Anya just spins out of the doorway to lead her to the audition room. (Clarke thinks she may have caught an eye roll in there, too, but she can’t be sure.)  
Octavia had been the one to schedule her for this, and she wonders if the company had agreed to meet Clarke just to appease the newest member of _Gonakru Nova._ She knows how fucking relentless Octavia can be when it comes to getting something she wants, and the night Octavia caught Clarke glued to the excerpt pages of Break Slow she’d brought home in her audition materials, she insisted Clarke needed to at least try all this again. _(“Your ass misses acting, and this show is going to be incredible. You’re going.”)_ Maybe they’d decided to just let Clarke trip and sputter out, and that would put an end to it. 

In any event, she begins to suspect her first instinct was sound, after all: she _really_ shouldn’t have come here. _Why the hell would they want a washed-up TV actress, anyway?_ She feels a snag of humiliation catch in her chest, and considers breaking for the door once Octavia’s gone in. 

Octavia shares a small, anxious smile with Clarke. Clarke rallies immediately. Even if her chances of getting cast in this thing are probably slim to _no fucking way,_ Octavia has a real shot here. She’s _good_ at this. Really good. And Clarke’s worries, no matter how founded, can’t cloud this moment for her. 

“You’ve got this,” Clarke whispers, grasping her friend’s hands and giving them a light squeeze. “You’ve totally got this.”

Octavia squeezes back, pursing her lips and ducking her head. The nerves embarrass her, always have. She normally hides them better, which clues Clarke in to how important this is for Octavia. _She wants this one._

“So do you, Griff,” she mumbles, before lifting her eyes and peering at Clarke from under her lashes. “Find me after?”

“Of course.” Octavia takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily. Clarke gives a reassuring smile and a last squeeze of Octavia’s suddenly clammy hands before releasing her and jutting her chin toward the door. “Now go knock ‘em dead.” 

Once Octavia departs, the room is eerily silent. Clarke stares at the doorway, her own nerves flaring madly now, reanimated. She inhales, breath shuddering, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her hands tremble. _Just go. Just go now. O will understand. She won’t like it, but she’ll understand. Just go…_

Right as she’s about to bolt though, she hears: 

“You’re sweet with her, “ Echo’s voice is much quieter, much more resigned than before.

Clarke pauses mid-step, her shoulders drooping. _Fuck._

She turns back. She can’t seem to force her eyes off the floor, though. “Yeah, we’ve been doing this together for a long time now,” she explains, voice cracking. _Don’t you dare. No tears, not now. For the love of all you hold dear, Griffin, you do NOT fucking cry in front of Echo North._

Clarke takes a steadying breath, and tries again. “We kind of lean on each other to get through things like this.”

Echo sighs wistfully ( _Yes, it actually sounds wistful. And pretty. Goddamn it._ ) and Clarke can hear her moving, settling into a chair. “That’s nice. To have that, I mean. Someone in the trenches with you.” 

Clarke swears she almost sounds sad, maybe. Or at least…far away. It’s something she’s never heard on Echo before, so she can’t be certain. She finally drags her eyes up to look at the actress. 

Echo’s leaning forward in her chair, long legs crossed and her head turned toward the tall window along the back wall, her chin propped in her hand. She looks over her shoulder abruptly, catching Clarke’s stare before she can retreat again. There’s more depth in her eyes now than when she’d last seen Echo. Something at once sharper and softer clicking around back there. 

She wonders, idly, what Echo might be finding in her, as well. Clarke must seem an entirely different creature now than the undergrad Echo knew. The one who smiled so easily and always tried to befriend, to peek below the surface of the people she met and dredge the raw terrain underneath. She’d tried with Echo, too, before cueing in to her abrasive, suspicious nature and running the other way. 

She’d just been so painfully _open_ back then. Flittering around, testing out friendships, groups, identities; struggling to find a way inside, to fold herself to fit somewhere. Perpetually seeking a connection with anyone who might recognize the gasping _want_ always rubbing her ribcage sore. The things she was trying so hard to say. 

That girl, though…that girl had _promise_ , wild and boiling. Before reality slipped a veil over her, and tamped her down to something quieter, more manageable. Clarke misses her. (At times, however, she finds it’s easier to breathe inside the balance knocked into her since those days. She’s hurtled to the blistering, hard edge of it all now, and it left her choking for air. It’s lighter in the middle of things. Emptier, at least.) 

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” Echo asks, tugging Clarke out of her thoughts. 

“Hmm?” 

“This whole process,” Echo replies, indicating the waiting room. “Auditions are not for the weak.”

Clarke studies her for a moment, taking in her expensive attire, her pampered skin. The glow of clean eating and good rest that clings to those with the wealth to have such luxuries at their disposal. Echo positively _gleamed_ in the small space, and Clarke can’t find the will to begrudge her for it, despite their past. Or what the other actress must have done to be this version of herself now. Success like that requires sacrifices. Echo alone has to shoulder those costs. 

“Some handle it better than others,” Clarke says, adding a lopsided grin to avoid Echo misconstruing any bitterness in the response.

Echo smiles, and Clarke sees actual warmth there, as well as a glimmer of that deeper awareness she’d witnessed earlier. Something acute and flaring that hints Clarke may not be the only one whose experience has whittled her senses to a keener point. 

She suddenly feels a bit too exposed in these close quarters, and moves to the door again.

“I’m just going to…,” Clarke says, pointing at the hallway, “you know, take a minute to prepare.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Echo answers, sitting up straight in her chair and smoothing her blouse. She opens her mouth to say something, stops herself, and then smiles once more before adding: “It really is good to see you again, Clarke.”

Clarke tucks her chin to her chest, cheeks flushing pink as a flash of her insane giggle-fest with Octavia earlier lights behind her eyes. She glances up and nods, gives Echo a mild smile. “You, too,” she murmurs, and then escapes out the door.

She steps a few paces down the hall before thinking: _Except you’re not really, are you, Echo? You’ve never seen this me before._


	2. Salt In The Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? If so, cool, cool, cool...'cause Lexa's about to show up, ya'll. 
> 
> (Also, I know I'm not reinventing the wheel, here. This is going to be trope-y as can be, and I'm not sorry about it one bit.) 
> 
> This chapter got away from me, and turned into, like, 11K words. I’ll try to keep myself in check going forward...
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone, and for the kind words! 
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of boygenius

It goes like this.

Clarke performs her rehearsed monologue, and — _somehow_ — she remembers all of it. Remembers to pause where she’d planned to, ramp up in others, drive her words home. _Inflection, intent, commitment._ All those bygone lessons from drama classes spluttering back to the surface. _You remember how to do this. It’s in there._

She auditions for Lincoln, Anya, and Indra, who she learns is the Technical Director at _Gonakru Nova._

Anya is the same as their initial meeting: impatient, low-key pissed at having to be there, and intimidating as hell.

Indra is _intense._ A woman with short, cropped hair, a coffee complexion, and a web of tribal pattern tattoos littering her wiry forearms. She has a nose ring and an air of _just give me a reason_ about her, undercut with a stillness that unsettles Clarke. Something that feels nearly ancient lurking behind her _“don’t fuck with me”_ facade. She’s not unkind, though; she treats Clarke with polite reserve as the audition proceeds. But she’s just…evaluating the whole time. Calculating. Which is — Clarke supposes — her job, after all. But it’s been a while since she’s felt so thoroughly _measured._

Having Lincoln there helps. He’s an envoy, at least; Clarke knows him from a few hang outs they’ve shared with Octavia, nights of after-show drinks down at _Tondisi,_ the favored bar among the _Gonakru_ crowd. And he’s just a nice guy, too. He’s this handsome, golden-skinned god stacked with muscles and a full-watt smile who also has the audacity to be thoughtful and considerate and real with everyone he meets. Clarke likes him a lot. In fact, she developed an insta-crush on him when they first met, but then she began to suspect his interest in Octavia extended well beyond the borders of _“work friend”_ , given the wondering glances she’s seen him direct at O sometimes. Octavia hasn’t noticed yet. _(Or maybe she has, and she’s simply trying to ignore it. Her place in the company is too new and way too critical to jeopardize by not keeping it in her pants.)_

After Clarke’s monologue is finished, Indra asks her to read from one of the _Break Slow_ excerpts she’s been given. 

Just as she’s about to begin, a brunette woman slips into the room as unobtrusively as possible, and Clarke immediately registers two things about her: One — she’s _lovely_ , a _Waterhouse_ portrait in motion. High cheekbones and large green eyes, windswept curls. Two — she blushes when everyone notices her entrance, anyway. 

She folds herself into a chair along the back wall. She doesn’t introduce herself, and no one asks her to. Clarke guesses she’s just a random company member who is there to observe. 

“When you’re ready,” Indra prompts, carrying on without acknowledging the disturbance.

Clarke exhales, and leaps.

Something shifts in her. It feels so different than her first monologue. She’s not just remembering now, thinking carefully through each pause and catch. She’s simply talking. The pages in her hands written by someone else but they’re _her words…_ she’s there, really there, right inside them. Not standing in a room being scrutinized and picked apart, but _in the actual moment she’s describing for them_ — feeling her way along, running tender fingertips across the scene as if she were strolling through high meadow grasses.

When she looks for the next line, and realizes the pages have ended, she feels interrupted. She still had more to tell.

For a long moment after, there’s silence. _Crickets._

Clarke’s heart rate picks up. _Oh, no._

Slowly, so slowly, she looks up…and finds wide, green eyes on her. The visitor is the only person still watching. They lock stares for what must be seconds only but something ripples there, craving to be articulated, before the brunette dips her chin down and breaks contact. She focuses on the purple Converse sneakers she’s wearing, and Clarke thinks she might be blushing again. Any other time, it would be endearing, but she has the sudden, stinging hunch that the woman seems embarrassed. And it _just might_ be on her behalf. _Was it that bad? Oh god, no…_

Everyone else is studying their notes, avoiding the naked _“How’d I do?”_ that must be plastered across Clarke’s face right now.

“Alright. Thank you,” Indra says. Her tone betrays _nothing_ , but Clarke didn’t really expect it would. Indra doesn’t seem the type to give anything away freely. She picks up Clarke’s info sheet and scribbles a note across the top Clarke can’t make out. “So, a few questions, and then we’ll be done. You received a rehearsal schedule in the audition packet, yes?”

Clarke nods, changes gears. _Alright, schedules. Schedules are easy. Talking about that won’t make me feel like I’m splitting apart._

“Any conflicts for you?”

“Just one. Next month, the night of the 8th. I have an event that I’ll need to attend.”

Anya pins her with an affronted glance. “What kind of an event?” She’s almost snarling.

“It’s…an art show, actually,” Clarke says, rolling her shoulders forward as if she’s revealing something she doesn’t want to. _Maybe I don’t. Not to Anya, at least._ “I’ve got a few pieces that are being included in a show at _Maccarone_ that night, and it would kind of seem like bad form to not be there, I guess.”

“That’s awesome, Clarke,” Lincoln chimes in. He’s smiling at her, and it’s completely genuine and kind. It soothes Clarke’s anxiety a bit. “That’s, like, a really big deal. You can’t miss that.”

Clarke flushes. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “But if it’s a problem, I’m sure I can work something out,” she quickly assures Indra. 

Indra shrugs coolly. Clarke’s not getting any commitments out of her, no matter if she’s willing to put one on the table. “We’ll see,” is all she replies.

“So you’re an artist.” From Anya again. “Is that why you’ve taken such a hiatus from acting since your TV show folded?” Her dark eyes are dancing. She’s enjoying making Clarke squirm, and Clarke sort of hates her for it.

Clarke pauses, considers her words. She’d constructed an answer for this, something vague and brief that would tiptoe past the _TMZ-worthy_ land mines cluttering up her work history. She knew they would ask. 

She darts a glance around the room. Everyone here, even the shy outlier in the back, _(even Anya, with her annoying, condescending demeanor)_ is daunting and dignified. _Heavy._ Everything about them speaks to high art and fathomless meaning. They’re discerning. _They’re even all wearing black, for God’s sake._ She feels so suddenly alien among them, right down to her appearance, with her blue eyes and butter blonde hair and pale complexion. Like she’s trespassed from another world entirely, a place where Clarke’s looks are the norm but nothing really matters and everyone there is just too _dense_ and _pedestrian_ to know the difference. She realizes gloss isn’t going to make an impression here. _And, truly, what do I have left to lose in this situation?_ The longer she stands in front of them, the more she feels the likelihood of being cast dissolving to vapor. 

So she opts for honesty. “In part, but…I needed to step back for a while and figure out some things. I’ve always loved stage work, but TV didn’t…what I was doing didn’t feel significant to me anymore, and I was looking for something with more substance to it.”

She waits. Indra’s writing again, her focus solely on the page in front of her, and Anya’s face is just set in the same detached scowl Clarke’s seen on her since her arrival. Lincoln prompts her with a subtle nod. _Keep going._

Clarke clears her throat and flexes her hands together, her restless fingers intertwining. “But, I guess…well, it’s like this: At the time, I sort of felt like I had some places that had been scraped bare inside me, and I went searching for something to patch them. My art answered. It’s kept me fairly occupied since.”

_(She omits the part about her dwindling celebrity getting her noticed back then, though. Without that, Clarke probably wouldn’t have gotten very far in the art realm, either. “That-one-girl-from-that-one-show-makes-art-and-her-stuff’s-not-bad” led to sales, to a website, to a couple galleries calling…)_

Anya clucks her tongue, skeptical. It causes a blaze of irritation to fire in Clarke. _Seriously, though. Who hurt you, Anya? Why must I pay for their sins?_ But Clarke can tell she’s thrown her a bit. She doesn’t ask anything else. 

Indra’s staring at her now, though. “And what made you come in today? What is it about this particular play that sparked your interest?”

“I read some of the excerpts Octavia was given, and something in them…I don’t know, resonated with me. It’s difficult to explain. I just read it, and something told me I should try to be a part of this.”

_Octavia. Octavia told me I should try. Beat me over the head with it until I dragged my sorry keister here._

“Octavia speaks very highly of you,” Indra says, as if reading Clarke’s mind. _She probably can. This woman is spooky as shit._

“That is…well shocking, actually,” Clarke replies, then kicks herself. She hurries on to explain. “But only because she’s like a sister to me and I’m more used to her tormenting me than saying nice things about me.” She finishes with a wobbly half-grin. 

Lincoln winks at her. Anya rolls her eyes. (She doesn’t even try to hide it this time.) The brunette in the back continues to stare at her shoes.

Indra just watches her. She doesn’t smile back. “Do you have any questions for us?”

Clarke shakes her head mutely. 

She is dismissed. 

*****************

Anya shows her out, takes her back to the hallway leading to reception and abandons her with a rough: “You can find your way from here,” tossed over her shoulder. 

The reception area is empty. Even Harper’s disappeared. 

Clarke hesitates in the middle of the silent room and stares at the outline of her smeared handprints on the front door, rivulets of rain running through them like scars. _Would you look at that. You’ve muddied the temple, Griffin. The theater gods will remember your crimes._ She wonders what the hell she’s supposed to do now.

She only gets a whisper of fabric’s warning before a muted voice says, from _somewhere_ behind her: “Octavia should be out soon.“

Clarke gasps and nearly tips over. (She must have riled herself up to “twitchy” with all the melodramatic _god-walloping_ thoughts.) She snaps her head toward her left to discover the mystery guest from the audition room tucked into a concealed stairwell off the hallway. 

She’s sitting on the steps, knees drawn up to her chest, the sleeves of her black, hooded henley pulled down over her hands. With her dark jeans and her long, unruly curls obscuring her profile, she’s difficult to spot in the dimness. It’s almost like she’s hiding from someone. _Probably you, you pitiful weirdo._

The woman blinks, eyebrows firing up, and waves her covered hands in front of her in the classic _“don’t shoot”_ pose. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Clarke relaxes, though her face burns hotly. _Damn it._ “No worries,” she manages. “Evidently, I’m a wee bit broken today. I swear I’m not normally this awkward.” She frowns. “Or maybe I am. It’s possible. You don’t know me, though, so perhaps you’ll just let me go in this instance and say I’m not normally this awkward.” She’s rambling like a _fiend_ , but she can’t make it stop.

The woman’s mouth ( _goodness, her lips are fetching_ ) quirks in a slight, barely-there smirk. “Well that’s a shame.”

“And why’s that?” Clarke asks, trying desperately to not stare too long at those eyes. Even in the gloom, they’re magnetic. (She’s failing. She knows she’s failing.) 

“I’ve usually found awkward people are the most interesting ones,” the brunette replies evenly.

Clarke pauses, examining this. “Yeah. Fair point. But then why are we always such rubbish at parties? I mean, nobody wants to invite their awkward friend, you know? It’s more like, _‘Oh, and I guess we should invite Larry so his feelings don’t get hurt but you have to deal with him when he gets drunk and starts going on about his Harry Potter fan fics’.”_

 _Oh god, the rambling_. But this is exactly the kind of floundering conversation starter Clarke usually dangles to test a stranger’s barometer. Try to get a read on what she’s working with, whether or not this woman’s going to bail out and leave Clarke (and her inner misfit) hanging. 

And she _may_ be flirting a tiny bit, too, but she’s so out of practice in that arena she just doesn’t even know anymore. All her feely parts are dumb and slow these days. Right now, in her head, there’s nothing but a squad of pesky simpletons smacking into each other, bumbling about in what vaguely resembles a talent-show Krump routine. (One with the overarching theme of: _‘Pretty girl. Make pretty girl like Clarke.’)_

The brunette grins though, and something lifts off and _soars_ inside Clarke at the sight. 

“Larry sounds like a charmer. Are his fics terrible?”

“I don’t even know a Larry,” Clarke confesses.

Without missing a beat, she counters, deadpan: “We should all know a Larry. The world needs people like him.”

Clarke laughs, playing along. “Maybe. But do we deserve people like him? That’s the question we should really ask.”

The woman squints off into the distance and nods sagely for a moment, as if pondering. 

She glances back at Clarke with an embarrassed twitch of her lips. “This has taken a strange turn, hasn’t it?”

Clarke shrugs. “Seems to always happen around me. I get that line a lot.”

The brunette’s…

 _Alright, she seriously needs a better descriptor. Because, damn, now that she’s up close, this woman is definitely more of a Pre-Raphaelite siren than an economy-grade brunette. Gah._

_The Lady of Shalott’s — Yeah. Much better._ — grin lights up again and holds. She shakes her head, amused. 

There’s a break in the banter then, and they are left just looking at one another. 

Clarke turns away first. _Coward._ She leans her weight on her hip, placing some distance between them. “So…you said Octavia should be out soon?” _Maybe I can call her Circe for now. It’s shorter but, like, Circe was kind of gruesome…_

The other woman reclines on her stair perch. “Yeah, they —“

“Wait! “ Clarke swivels around so swiftly it leaves her with vertigo for a second. 

Circe jolts back upright and gapes at Clarke as if she’s beginning to suspect she’s trapped herself in a shadowy stairwell with a lunatic.

So Clarke tones down the urgency _fast._ “Just…before you answer that…” She motions to her forehead. “There’s this whole _thing_ happening up here that’s distracting me like mad, and I need to make it stop.” _Okay, wording, Clarke. Now you just sound even more insane._ Her face crumbles. “I don’t know your name, and it’s bothering me.” 

“You don’t…? You don’t know my _name?”_ she splutters. She sounds as if it’s the most bizarre thing she’s heard Clarke say yet. 

_And this has certainly not been my finest hour._ Clarke shakes her head warily.

“Huh.” The woman chews this over. “It’s just been a while since someone asked me my name around here.” After a beat more, she glances at Clarke and shrugs as if she’s wiping some notion clear. “It’s Lexa,” she finally answers. 

It takes a moment for Clarke to catch up. She’s still puzzling through the _“since someone asked my name around here”_ bit. _What does that even mean?_ “Lexa,” she repeats, then just stares at… _Lexa. Pretty name, too._

A slow, timid smile stretches across Lexa’s face at Clarke’s continued staring. The tops of her cheeks are pink.

Clarke snaps out of it. “I’m Clarke,” she offers.

Lexa points back toward the audition room down the hall. “I know. Remember?”

 _Smooth. So, so smooth._ “Right. Of course. Sorry.” She gives an exasperated sigh. “Though, if you’ll also recall, I’ve been given a pass on all my awkward tendencies today, so…”

Lexa’s eyebrows draw together. “I don’t recall striking that deal,” she argues, sliding back into their teasing once again. “I think the stress of this whole experience has maybe diminished your faculties a shade, Clarke.”

 _The only thing diminishing my faculties right now is hearing you say my name,_ Clarke thinks. _God._

She recovers, placing her fists on her hips in mock disappointment. “So that’s the tactic you’re taking, then? Deny and dismiss? Ugh. That’s amateur hour strategy.”

“O-ho!” Lexa scoffs. “Well, let me consult my war council and we’ll pick this up again later. I’m clearly out of my depth here. I need to reassess.”

Clarke decides right then she loves the way Lexa speaks, her low, level voice conveying a clever wit underneath the quiet exterior. And she also likes the way her word choices vacillate easily between geek culture and _war councils_ — evidence of a kind of worldliness to her disposition that has Clarke’s interest _singing._

Clarke unfolds her hands, palms up. “Hey, the first step in finding help is to admit you need help, you know?”

That earns a quiet chuckle from Lexa. In the space that settles after, Clarke remembers why she’s here. What she’s actually supposed to be doing. She’s swerved _hard_ in the past few minutes.

“So, Octavia…” she says again. “She’s still in there right now?”

Lexa folds her arms across her knees, resting her chin on them, and nods absently. “Yeah. They, uh…they wanted to have her read through a couple other scenes. Other characters. You know. I think they’re about to get started.”

Clarke is afraid to ask the next question. “Do you think they’ll need to call me back in, or am I pretty much done?”

She regards Clarke for a moment. Clarke watches a kaleidoscope of competing emotions glimmer in her eyes, and she can’t decipher any of them. It’s frustrating, especially since she’s still teetering on the memory of this woman hunched over her shoes during Clarke’s audition earlier. And the unwillingness of everybody else in the room to look at her when she was done. She’s just not sure how she fared in there.

Finally, Lexa answers. “No, I don’t think so. I’m guessing they probably got enough from what you did today.” Her tone is softer. Gentle. _Maybe even a little apologetic?_

Clarke ducks her head, feels her heart sag with a dull _whump. Ah. Well, at least you gave it a whirl._

“May I ask you something?”

Clarke glances up, packs her brooding away for later. “Go ahead.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you certainly don’t have to answer, but…” Lexa pauses, stutters, then gives a determined head shake and plows on before she can edit herself again. “You said something you read in the excerpts resonated with you. Would you tell me what it was?” 

Clarke observes her. There’s just _so much_ going on here. There’s a clear impression of consciously drawing back, drawing _down_ , etched in this woman, sure. The reticence. The blushing. The _look away_ quality of her movements. But Clarke also senses something else — like a current, maybe — glowing red and and raving below all of that. It’s almost as if Lexa’s reined in but _charged_ , too. Ready to pitch sparks if someone hits the right wire. That perhaps she’s just trained herself to ground all her fire, and simply endure the troublesome burn of it, instead.

And Clarke doesn’t understand how she knows it’s there, but she just _knows._ It’s familiar. The _“recognize-it-anywhere”_ flavor of _reaching_ and _wanting_ that has lived on her tongue since she first dragged a paintbrush across canvas. Lexa feels that secret riot out there, too. 

It makes her brave enough to let her in. “There was this section…” she begins. “Well, it was a part where one of the characters speaks about loss. And she says: _‘When you lose someone, you don’t just lose them once. It’s not just the one horrible hour that took that took them from you. It’s all the lesser moments, too.’_ Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Lexa wraps her arms around her middle like she’s expecting a blow. She nods.

“Yeah. And there’s this line…the character’s explaining, like, when you laugh, and look around for that person to get the joke, because she’s the only one who would, and she’s not there. Or when you find something that still smells like her, things like that. You lose her many times. Over and over.” 

Clarke stops, pulls in a breath. 

Lexa has gone so, so still. But even without looking over to confirm, Clarke can feel those lethal eyes on her. Waiting.

“And then there’s this line,” Clarke continues. “And it was so perfect and awful it just _slashed_ right into me: _’Each time you reach for her and come up with nothing except yourself…alone, remembering she’s gone — you lose her the most.’_ I knew when I read that…and we only received snippets in the preview pages, so I realize it wasn’t much for me to feel so certain, but…when I read that, I just knew this play was going to be beautiful. Like, devastating, even. And I wanted to be a part of it. Or at least try, anyway.”

Clarke finally turns her head and meets Lexa’s gaze. There’s an open, anguished _ache_ in her expression now that causes Clarke to actually release a tiny, surprised gasp. 

Lexa swallows. When she speaks, her voice is rust. “You’ve lost someone.” No question in it at all.

Clarke stares, her eyes skipping from place to place across Lexa’s features, overcome with the pain reflected there. And she knows she’s unmasked another layer. _Lexa has suffered._ Her throat burns, but she somehow forces out a raspy response. “Yes. Many times.”

Whatever Lexa is about to say next is extinguished by loud, sudden footsteps down the hallway. It’s Anya, stomp-jogging toward them, the theater’s old floorboards groaning obscenely under her boots. The commotion feels like such a crude intrusion on this moment it physically _wrenches_ Clarke away from Lexa. She stumbles back a step. 

Anya stops short when she sees them together, her nose wrinkling in either confusion or disgust. (It’s difficult to tell with Anya.) She cocks an eyebrow at the woman on the stairs. “We’re waiting for you.”

Lexa is already moving, unfolding her long legs and nodding, distracted. She stands. Arranges herself back into the sober observer once again. “Yeah. On my way.”

She follows Anya a few steps as if by rote, then turns back. And though her face is sealed off and collected again, closed in the wake of the cranky stage manager’s appearance, her eyes are absolutely shining when they settle on Clarke. Clarke can read the helpless message there. She _really_ doesn’t want to go.

Clarke tucks her chin and grins, an honest and hopeful thing. _I understand_ , she tries to transmit to Lexa. 

It must work, because Lexa inhales once, lets her shoulders drop, and allows herself a small, crooked purse of her lips. “Tell Larry to don’t stop believing, would you?”

Clarke tuts at her. “Really? You’re going to sign off on a _Journey_ lyric? Aren’t you supposed to be a theater professional or something? Shakespeare must be positively _spinning_ right now.” 

Lexa breaks, all her careful composure sliding right off her face as she swallows a loud bark of laughter. She flashes a wide, radiant smile at Clarke, which Clarke mirrors instantly. She truly can’t help it, looking at something that beautiful. 

“Larry just really seems like he’d be a fan to me,” Lexa says with a slight shrug. 

They continue smiling stupidly at one another for a moment more. 

Clarke’s stomach plummets dizzily and she feels something buoyant and wonderful break free inside her. _My god, theater professional or not…even if it turns out you’re just, like, the janitor around here…you’re most definitely something, Lexa._ She takes in a deep, flustered breath.

Then Anya pokes her head around the corner and whacks her clipboard against the wall, scaring the _ever-lovin’ hell_ out of them. When they both flinch, Anya lets out this violent, deranged cackle before she clomps out of sight. It actually lifts the hairs on Clarke’s arms. 

Lexa scowls and raises her eyes to the ceiling as if petitioning the heavens for either patience or a well-aimed bolt of lightning directly up Anya’s ass. _Could be both._

With a last, lingering look at Clarke, she turns on her heel and drifts down the hallway.

*************

Clarke is alone in the reception area when she sees her again.

It’s a photo this time, though, one in the collection of faces and bios swiping by on the screen that she’s been blankly staring at as she waits for Octavia. She’s replaying the afternoon’s events — the audition, the weighty meeting with a fascinating stranger — when she glances up, and finds Lexa looking back at her.

A black and white: Lexa in a blazer and button-down, a far cry from the casual look she’d been wearing earlier. Her sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and her hands are tucked in the front pockets of her trousers, her posture relaxed and confident — shoulders back, chin tilted up so she’s looking down into the lens. There’s a challenge in her stare, a _“come at me”_ attitude to the whole pose that is, again, so different from the woman Clarke met today.

Underneath, the bio reads: _Alexandria Woods — Founder, Artistic Director_

And just like that, Clarke’s world capsizes with a shivery, pounding _boom._

She dimly absorbs scatter-shot facts from the rest of the bio’s text. _Graduate of Columbia University’s School of the Arts…recipient of the Relentless Award from the American Playwriting Foundation…screenwriting credits include…directing credits include…_

Her head is buzzing now, her bewildered, widened eyes skittering down to the dog-eared and pencil-marked pages in her lap that she’d carried with her to the audition. 

Clarke blinks at the cover page on top, at the words stamped right below the tea stain she’d managed to leave on it earlier. 

_‘Break Slow’ - a play by A. Woods_

Alexandria Woods. _Lexa_ Woods.

_Holy. Shit._

 

*********************

Clarke drops her head on the table with a loud, satisfying _thwack._ “Oh, god,” she moans. It’s about the only thing she’s managed to say in the last ten minutes.

Octavia laughs and thunks another shot glass down next to Clarke’s face. “Just stop it and drink, Griff. There’s nothing else you can do about it now.”

They’re crammed around a table at _Tondisi,_ Octavia bolstering her on one side and Lincoln sitting opposite, looking vaguely concerned about Clarke’s floppy histrionics. Even though the place is packed — _it’s karaoke night, after all_ — Octavia insisted that they go out to celebrate Clarke’s not-so-triumphant return to the thespian lifestyle and to debrief after the auditions.

“I mean…I’m just such an idiot, you know?” Clarke wails, her voice muffled by the table. “I didn’t know who she was. How could I not know who she was? How could you —”

Someone kicks off Lady Gaga’s _“Bad Romance”_ , and the rest of Clarke’s lamenting gets squashed by the sudden onslaught of: _“Rah-rah-ah-ah-aaa-ah…”_ around them. 

“What?” Octavia shouts — _almost directly into Clarke’s ear_ — as she jostles Clarke with her hip, swaying to the music.

Clarke raises up with a glare. “How could you not tell me who the she was, O? I mean, come on. You just let me —“

“I’m going to stop you right there, okay?” Octavia interrupts, halting her movements like she’s closing a fist. “First of all, I did tell you who she was. Like, a long time ago. You’ve heard me talk about her. _We’ve_ even talked about her.”

“That is such bullshit!” Clarke cries. “When?! I would have definitely remembered something like —“

“No, we totally did. At Trey’s party. In fact, I told you that very night we’d put a premiere of one of her plays on the schedule this season.” Octavia finishes with a self-satisfied swig of her beer.

Clarke stares for a second, then shakes her head in impatient frustration. “Who the fuck is Trey?” 

Octavia curls her lip at her, incredulous. “Who the fuck is…Clarke, I love you, darlin’, but how do you even find your way home at night, huh? It’s like you’re bubble wrapped or some shit. Things just bounce right the hell off of you. Trey. The guy I dated for a hot second who works at The Garden?”

“Wait. The dude with the blue hair and man bun and all the cats?”

“That’s the one. How do you remember _“blue man bun and cats”_ , but you don’t remember anything else?”

“Do I even need to answer that? Because, seriously… _blue man bun,_ O. That makes a goddamn _impression.”_

Across the table, Lincoln snorts into his drink. Octavia narrows her eyes at him. “He was a good guy, okay? Plus he got me concert tickets.”

“Which would excuse some - and I only mean _some_ — of that, I guess,” Lincoln replies. “Except you don’t listen to any music that was produced after the year you were born, and most of the people you’d bother to go see in concert are dead. So…”

“Hey, it’s a scientific fact that music peaked circa 1998. Everything that’s come after has just been a pale impersonation of what was done before, and better.”

“But what about —“ Lincoln begins to ask.

“The science is sound, Lincoln.” Octavia says, cutting him off. “You can’t refute it.”

“Okay, so back to this?” Clarke prods, turning toward Octavia and rapping her knuckles on the table. “I don’t ever remember you talking about a ‘Lexa’ before. And certainly not the conversation you’re claiming we’ve had.”

“Probably not. You were so schwasted that night you asked our Uber driver if he’d ever watched _Battlestar Galactica_ and when he said no, you started acting out the pilot episode and doing, like, all the voices and shit. By the end of the ride, you were just weeping softly and mumbling: _‘So say we all!’_ over and over again. That guy was _scared,_ Clarke.”

“Sonuva…” Clarke breathes, horrified.

“Yeah,” Octavia agrees. She flags down a passing server and grabs a handful of karaoke sign-up slips from her. “And as far as today goes, I didn’t _let_ you do anything. I wasn’t even there when you allegedly stepped in it so badly with Lexa.” She starts writing down a song to sing, her tongue poking out as she squints down at the slip of paper. “And it probably wasn’t as horrible as you’re making it out to be, anyway. You always assume the worst.”

“Lexa’s actually really cool, once you’re in with her,” Lincoln offers. “She can seem sort of withdrawn and that can be super intimidating at first, but it takes a lot to rattle her. I’m sure everything’s fine. She’s honestly just this really incredible person.”

 _Ugh. I know she is. That’s why this is all such a fucking travesty,_ Clarke thinks.

“See?” Octavia flings her hand towards Lincoln. “And that’s coming from the expert. Lincoln and Lexa go way back. They grew up together. If he says you’ve got nothing to worry about, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“You grew up together?” Clarke asks.

“Sort of. We met in college.”

Clarke files that away, and then grimaces again. She can’t seem to force her face into any other shape tonight. _What a mess._ “Look, it wasn’t just that I probably insulted the hell out of her by not realizing she’s only the damn playwright and, like…God…founded Gonakru or whatever, no big deal. But…guys, I _flirted_ with her. How skeevy is that? It must have looked like I was trying to, you know, influence her to get a part or something. It’s so gross.”

“Are you sure she knew you were flirting?” Octavia asks, looking around for one of the servers to pass her karaoke request to. “You’re terrible at that. Maybe she just thought you were in distress and hung around long enough to render aid if needed.”

“Thanks, O. That’s really helpful,” Clarke snipes. “Glad I can always count on you.”

“You know it’s true,” Octavia tosses back. “Your ‘A’ game doesn’t show up until you’re at least three drinks in, and after that you turn all _boss bish_ and take charge and there’s no fucking stopping you. But _stone-cold-sober-Clarke-flirting_ is painful to watch.”

Lincoln holds up a hand. “Okay, it can’t be as bad as that,” he says, wading in gently to defend Clarke. 

_This guy is so damn honorable and sweet. Octavia better not break him._

Octavia fixes him with a sarcastic lift of her eyebrows. “I’m telling you, man. It hurts my eyes. They straight tear up.”

“Could we stop talking about this now, please?” With an embarrassed huff, Clarke tosses back the shot Octavia supplied her with earlier, and immediately regrets the decision. It tastes like a _Jolly Rancher_ soaked in lukewarm diesel. She explodes in a coughing fit, her eyes streaming.

“And…scene. She’s captured it beautifully, Lincoln. Clarke’s flirting is pretty much exactly like that.” Octavia tips her beer toward Clarke, smirking. 

“Unnnngh. Whatever was in that glass tasted like the stuff serial killers dissolve their victims in,” Clarke manages, wiping at her face with her sleeves.

“Nyko’s calling them _‘Melon Brawlies’._ I’m starting to get why they’re on special tonight.” Octavia slides a glass of water over, and pats Clarke on the back. “Hey, you know I’m just messing with you, Clarke. You’ve still got game. It’s maybe, like, in the basement…waaaay back on a shelf…behind some dusty old Christmas decorations and shit, but it’s still there. You just need to grab a Maglite and find it, already.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes and repeats the mantra that’s held her friendship with Octavia aloft all these years: _She means well._ Despite O remaining the undefeated champ of backhanded affirmations, she’s at least _trying_ to help her feel better about this. Clarke looks around at the crowd. _And she’s really not wrong._ The last measurable relationship she’d had was with Finn, and that was… _God._ Just thinking his name sends a bitter shiver through her. 

She’d met Finn in all the L.A. chaos. _Whammed_ right into him at a club and imploded in flare of gasps and bad decisions. He had flowing, rowdy poet’s hair and called himself a filmmaker, but Clarke was reasonably sure he actually sold pills to get by. She’d liked his energy at first. He lived flat-out and fierce, always hanging over the ridge of one risk or another that could absolutely destroy him, tempting the void. Like he didn’t believe he could lose. He rode street bikes and was into base jumping, drank too much bourbon, and would do careless things like shuttle Clarke up terrifying, winding mountain roads at 3am to watch a meteor shower out at Big Bear Lake just so she could see how incredible it was. 

Finn relished the high of having Clarke on his arm, too — the girlfriend with an interesting job, a healthy bank account. He could brandish her in the face of bartenders and club owners and it earned him special treatment. But he also adored her, and Clarke fucking _reveled_ in that part of the exchange. (Though she would come to understand he really treated her more like a rare museum piece. Adored, yes, but… _guarded._ Mindful she was always meant for display.) 

His love had a frenzy and a focus to it that Clarke first named passion, but later realized was just the way Finn believed love should _look._ A portrayal of love — counterfeit — convincing enough to fool her, even, for a while. Until she held it under the light, peered harder. He couldn’t feel the real thing. Certainly not for her, at least. No one could say _love_ and then follow it up with all the hurtful wrongs he committed, aiming low and sneering when Clarke’s heart bled raw and red.

He cheated a lot. He lied even more. And then he disappeared. Left Clarke for some fitness expert with her own reality show. It was the perfect L.A. ending to something that was mostly imaginary in the first place — their fabricated, stitched-together “relationship”.

(She’d placed it all on canvas exactly _once._ Painted their time together as a cracked-open crash test dummy spilling bar napkins and stars.)

Clarke just hasn’t really bothered since. There have been a few dates. A woman she met on the High Line. A guy who took her to a MoMA event. But getting close to someone again just feels like something she’s forcing herself to do. _Expected_ to do.

(That old, menacing word she destroyed herself over out West.)

She hasn’t experienced a fizzle of organic attraction for anyone until today…in a dark stairwell, sharing hidden truths with a stranger. A very _off-limits_ stranger. 

_This is so fucking unfair._

“So, is Lexa —“ Clarke prompts.

Octavia slams her beer down on the table, and Clarke chokes on whatever she was about to ask. 

“Alright. I didn’t want to do it, but I’m ripping this train right off the goddamn rails right now. Tough love time. Look, I get it. You two moody little eggheads had a moment, and now it’s got your thirst all swirled up and raging —“

At that, Clarke sucks in a breath so hard she hiccups. She swings her eyes to Octavia and tries to desperately signal her friend to _shut up. Shut up. Shut uuuuuuup._ This isn’t something she wants Lincoln to hear. But Octavia won’t let up.

“ — but when that dam breaks…and I know you well enough to know _it most assuredly will_ …you can not point that mess at our director, mmkay?” She motions wildly between herself and Lincoln. “Because not only do we depend on her for our livelihoods, but, Clarke…you assholes will absolutely wreck our lives, girl.”

“Wh-what?” Clarke stammers. “Why would you —“

Octavia rams her index finger into the center of Clarke’s chest. “That shit would turn dark —“ _Poke._ “Real.” _Poke._ “Quick.” _Poke-poke-poke._ Clarke slaps her hand away.

“You’re both way too fucking smart, and way too fucking sensitive,” Octavia continues. “Both of you all twisted up with that internalized, _agonized genius_ bullshit…that’s a genuine fucking calamity waiting to strike.”

“A minute ago, I needed help to find my own front door according to you, and now I’m promoted to _genius?”_ The words come out snarkier than Clarke intends. She’s not really angry at Octavia. _(Irritated, yes, but that’s not unusual. Low-grade annoyance is kind of O’s specialty.)_ Though she’s not proud of it, Clarke realizes she may be throwing a bit of tantrum at being so publicly told she _can’t_ get near this wonderful, galvanizing… _god, whatever this is._ No matter how much she knows she _shouldn’t._ She’s also stinging from the indignity of all of this getting spread out on the table in front of Lincoln, too. _Augh._

“You know you’re one of the brainiest and most talented fucks I ever met, alright?” Octavia rachets down a level and gentles her tone when she says: “But — real talk — you can be kind of oblivious, too, especially when you get a little fixated on someone who’s turned your head.”

She quietly absorbs Octavia’s tirade for a moment. And then, because she _clearly can’t help herself anymore_ , Clarke bullies right on, anyway, and helps prove Octavia’s theory. “Is she even…? Like, I was definitely picking up a frequency, but, does Lexa even like girls?” 

Lincoln opens his mouth to answer, but Octavia gets there first. “Who _doesn’t?!_ I don’t even goddamn know, okay? _Jesus._ The point is, Clarke, it _cannot_ happen. Listen, I’m just trying to save souls here. I mean, you step across this mine field, sister, and we’re talking total rack-and-ruin annihilation for us all. You’d be persecuting every damn one of us who would have to trudge in and scrape your busted asses off the walls afterward.” 

Lincoln actually looks a bit sick at Octavia’s graphic descriptions. If she weren’t already reeling from her own personal _“Tilt-a-Whirl”_ of questionable booze and rotgut emotions right now, Clarke would comfort him.

Octavia’s not finished yet, though. She’s fairly _scolding_ Clarke when she adds: “And what if you actually end up working together, huh? Lexa won’t even sniff in your direction if you wind up in her show. So let’s pack it up, Desperado. There’s no winning this one. If you’re just jonesing for some trouble to stick a saddle on and lose a few hours with…” O throws a wide gesture at the bar crowd. “…Then look around, pick somebody. Go get yours, cowgirl. Just aim for a lower target, okay? You know, maybe someone who _isn’t_ holding my entire career in her hands right now.” 

There’s a lull then, in which Clarke can only dart her eyes between Octavia and Lincoln, desperately picking through Octavia’s litany of jumbled metaphors for some kind of rebuttal. The only resounding truth she comes up with, though is: _She’s right. You’ve got to let this go._ “Oh, god,” she finally groans, sinking her head into her hands.

“Aaaand, we’re back to this again. Cool,” Octavia says. She scribbles something on her karaoke slip and catches a server’s attention, shaking it at him right in front of Clarke’s face. 

Underneath the song title, Clarke sees her name scratched on the paper in O’s unmistakable fourth-grader’s scrawl.

She snatches the slip out of Octavia’s hand. “Gimme that.” She unfolds it.

It’s _“I Touch Myself”_ by the _Divinyls._ Requested, apparently, by one _“Clarke needz-a-layin’ Griffin”._

Clarke crumples the paper and throws it at Octavia. “Hysterical, O. Fucking hysterical.” 

Octavia snickers and immediately begins filling out another slip, turning to Lincoln with an exaggerated batting of eyelashes. “So, Lincoln. What the hell was up with Echo being there today?” 

Clarke realizes Octavia is creating diversions for her benefit, allowing her some time to settle back into herself. _Even if she is being entirely bratty about it, but…seriously. It’s O. What more can I expect?_

Lincoln shrugs, injecting an innocence into his tone that immediately clues them into the fact that _he knows something, but he’s not telling._ “She and Lexa know each other from somewhere. I think maybe they worked together on a film or something like that? I don’t know. Lexa’s been doing a lot of outside projects lately…we haven’t had much time to catch up.” Clarke would _own_ this dude in a poker game.

Octavia knows he’s holding back, too, but — shockingly — lets him slide. She clicks the pen in her hand repeatedly and watches him for a moment, then looks away, returning to doodling on the paper in front of her. “Ugh. Echo’s the worst, man. Please tell me her audition was, like, a nightmare. Did Anya make her cry? Oooooh, even better, did _Indra_ make her cry?”

Lincoln closes down, suddenly becoming fascinated by the straw in his drink, it would seem. He won’t look at them. “You know I can’t talk about anything until it’s cast.”

Octavia waves him off. “Fine, fine. Be all noble and upstanding, then. I’ll just get all the sordid parts from Anya later. She’ll give me the good dirt. She can’t stand that twat waffle, either.”

“She was surprisingly decent to me in the waiting room,” Clarke offers off-handedly.

It’s baffling to realize the most disgraceful stumble of her day is no longer the weirdness that happened with Echo earlier. _You’re always setting that bar high, Griffin. Way to go, you overachiever, you._

“Your definition of ‘surprisingly decent’ and mine aren’t living in the same zip code, then,” says Octavia. She holds up another karaoke slip and signals to someone over Clarke’s shoulder.

“I kind of like her show,” Lincoln confides. “I thought this last season was actually really good.”

“Oh, not you, too,” Octavia sighs. “Next time, I need to remind myself to not sit in _Enabler Corners_ when we go out. Or at least bring Raven along as a buffer for the two of you. With all your ‘ _Gee, she’s not so bad, you should really try to be a better person, Octavia’_ nonsense.” 

“No!” Lincoln argues. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just meant —“

“Hey, gang!” Nyko greets them, suddenly appearing next to Clarke. He takes Octavia’s karaoke slip from her. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”

“Hey, Nyko,” Octavia returns, smiling up at the owner and ignoring Lincoln’s earnest attempts to back pedal. “Karaoke night has fucking caught on, huh? This crowd is nuts, man.”

Nyko folds his broad arms and tugs at his long, scruffy beard as his eyes sweep over the room. “Yeah, it’s doing alright. Thanks for that, by the way. It was your idea in the first place.” He winks at Octavia and flips the faded _Tondisi_ cap off his head to playfully bat at her with it. Octavia slaps back at him _Three Stooges_ -style. 

For a guy who owns one of the busiest bars on this block, Clarke finds it comical that Nyko always sort of looks like he just slogged home from a four-day music festival somewhere. He’s totally _‘burned-out-hippie-chic’_ straight through to his laid-back personality, and the fact that the man just doesn’t get worked up about much whatsoever — most especially his wardrobe — is probably why he and Octavia get along so famously. 

“You all good?” Nyko asks, indicating their table. “Need a refill? Did you all see we’ve got _Melon Brawlies_ half price?”

Clarke’s stomach gives a frightened, nauseated _lurch_ at that.

Octavia shakes her head. “No, I think we’re set, man. Thanks, though.”

Nyko glances at the karaoke slip Octavia handed him, and nudges Clarke’s shoulder. “Ooooooh, killer choice, Clarke.” 

“Huh?” Clarke replies. 

Octavia slides down in her seat, already giggling. Clarke takes the slip from Nyko. 

_“Somebody to Love”_ by Queen, it reads. Requested by Clarke _“No, seriously, like anybody”_ Griffin.

Clarke glares at Octavia and rips the paper in half. “O, if you write my name down on one more of those things, I will fucking end you,” she vows. 

Octavia snorts and produces another karaoke slip, handing it to Nyko. Clarke makes a motion to grab for it, but Octavia stops her. “No, wait! That one’s for me. Seriously. Promise. Nyko, confirm for her, please, but don’t tell her what it is, okay? I want to maintain the suspense.”

Nyko looks at the slip and nods. “All clear, Clarke.” He tilts his eyebrow at Octavia. “But if you’re doing this, you’re going next. My bar, my rules. Besides, I want to see if you’ve got the chops for this one.” He grasps Octavia by the elbow and motions toward the stage set up near the front of the bar.

Octavia stands and begins to follow Nyko. “Listen to you. You know I’ve got the chops. Don’t even play.” Nyko just laughs and slings an arm over her shoulders as they disappear into the crowd. “Hold on to your butts, bishes!” Octavia calls out to Clarke and Lincoln as she departs.

Lincoln stares after her, a wrinkle of worry settling across his brow. He looks so dejected.

“She was kidding earlier, Lincoln. You know that, right?” Clarke assures him gently. “She didn’t mean it.”

Lincoln nods and rubs at the back of his neck self-consciously. “Yeah, I know, I know…” He grins at Clarke. “Thanks, though.” He pauses then, considers his words, spinning his drink glass between his hands. “And about the deal with Lexa…try not to beat yourself up too badly over it, okay?”

Clarke scrunches up her face and blows out breath. “Yeah. About that. I’d appreciate it so much if you would just, like…forget every humiliating thing you witnessed tonight? And definitely didn’t mention any of it to her?”

Lincoln smiles at her. “That’s not something I would ever do, Clarke. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” She regards him for a moment. “You know, you might be one of the best people I’ve met, by the way. And I’m not just saying that because you were in on my audition today, either. That’s not something _I_ would ever do. You’re just one of the kindest, best dudes, and I’m glad to know you, Lincoln.”

Lincoln puts his hand on his chest and just _looks_ at her, taken aback by the sincerity.

Clarke tucks her chin. “I know, I know. Sorry. Blame it on the _Melon Brawlies._ I think they’ve turned me sappy.”

He laughs. “Well, hey. Just so you know, if I were making any of the final casting choices, that would have definitely gotten you in.” He pauses. “And one more thing, for the record? And then we’ll forget all about what we’ve discussed tonight?”

Clarke glances up at him. 

“Lexa’s…amazing. But I think you already suspect that, considering what your face looked like when you were talking about her earlier.”

Clarke’s paying complete attention now. She focuses on Lincoln, and waits. 

“I get what Octavia’s saying, I do, but…just know that the ‘moment’ you two had? Whatever it was, the fact that Lexa shared more than just a few words with you today is…so rare, Clarke. Rare for her. And I don’t mean it’s because she’s, like, shut down or stuck up or anything like that, it’s just…Lexa doesn’t _ever_ talk to people during auditions. Even me, all the times I’ve auditioned for her. It’s just something she doesn’t _do._ She never wants anyone to get the idea she’s showing favor, you know? She’s really intense about fairness and equality within the company. So take that how you will, but…it seems like that might mean something.”

Clarke draws up, inhaling deeply. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been leaning in until that moment. _Jesus. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?_

She runs a shaky hand _(damn…yup, it’s actually shaking)_ through her hair and directs a small smirk across the table, a stab at composure in the wake of Lincoln’s revelation. “Maybe it just means I crashed and burned so badly today there wasn’t any reason for her to hold back, you know?” She tries for levity, but doesn’t think she gets there. 

Lincoln frowns at her. “I doubt that. I was in that room, too.”

“Well…god, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I just…” Clarke trails off, casting a regretful glance toward the stage, where a piano intro has started to play. She looks back to Lincoln, and gives him a solemn nod, hoping he sees her honest gratitude. That she understands what he’s gifted her, even if she can’t seem to talk about it anymore. “Thank you for telling me, Lincoln.”

He nods and reaches for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze before turning to the stage. 

Clarke remembers the image of Lexa’s smile, the persistent _pull_ she felt while in the other woman’s presence. As if some sort of delirious, outside force had been furiously weaving threads between them from the moment they first looked at each other. Something urging her to get _closer, closer…_

From the stage, Octavia’s voice floats in, and silences her musing. 

_“I hear the ticking of the clock  
I’m lying here, the room’s pitch dark…”_

Clarke’s face falls the second she recognizes the song. It’s _“Alone”_ by Heart. 

_She is such a fucking dick._

*****************

Later that night, once Octavia’s gone to bed, Clarke goes snooping. She didn’t mean to, really. She’d been slumped on the couch, poring over her encounter with Lexa for the _8,637th_ time, when she opened up her laptop and found herself typing _“Alexandria Woods”_ into the search bar just to see what the internet would throw back.

That was two hours ago. Clarke may be just the _teensiest_ bit infatuated.

She’s gathered the basic facts: Lexa just turned 30, so she’s two years older than Clarke, and — if her Wikipedia page is a credible source — her birthday is in November. Born and raised in New York, though any details about her family history are scant at best. She’s only managed to piece together that it’s _possible_ Lexa has parents, or at one time had parents, but nothing can be confirmed. No mention of siblings, or spouses. _(Even though once she realized her identity, Lexa immediately veered into the “no touchy” lane in Clarke’s head, she was still relieved to read the latter bit.)_

And for someone whose odometer only just hit its third decade on this rock, Lexa’s been _busy._ She founded _Gonakru_ six years ago. It appears as though she had been in the graduate program for Theater Arts at Columbia, and then dropped out quite abruptly, emerging the next year at the helm of her very own company. 

Even at their outset, _Gonakru Nova_ earned stellar reviews. They were different — a small, rogue band of mostly college-age unknowns producing impassioned, original work at a time when two-thirds of the theaters in New York were staging enormous _Disney-fied_ musicals with outrageous budgets. (Even their name, which — according to the theater’s website — loosely translates to _“New Army”_ or _“New Warriors”_ , aligns perfectly with the company’s ethos. They were taking a stand, fighting back.) _Gonakru_ was all about content over spectacle and truly connecting with audiences, making an impact. One critic called Lexa _“a fearless storyteller who wears her tormented heart on the outside, right where we can all see it, so that we may never forget its savage rhythm.”_

_Well._

So Clarke’s intuition about her was seemingly spot on. There are untapped tempests raging in Lexa, after all. She’s just gotten better at disguising them. 

Outside of her work at _Gonakru,_ Lexa’s either written or directed a handful of indie films, as well. Nothing Clarke recognizes immediately, but she already knows she’ll be filling up her Amazon queue with a couple of those titles in the near future. _(She may be more than just a teensy bit infatuated. Possibly. Shut up.)_

And though there aren’t many to find, Clarke uncovers a few photos of Lexa, too. They’re mostly publicity shots for reviews, nothing too candid. None of the _“gotcha”_ -level pictures Clarke still sometimes fears are circulating online of her. (She’s been out of the spotlight for so long she hopes no one really cares to go looking anymore, but the worry still nags at her every once and a while.) 

There is one, though, that causes Clarke to throw a lame “Judd-Nelson-in- _The-Breakfast-Club”_ style fist in the air. It’s a photo of Lexa attending an LGBTQ fundraiser, her arm around the waist of an attractive platinum blonde woman. The article dates from three years ago. Clarke swats away her first reaction as swiftly as it arrives — (a slight twinge that feels dangerously close to _“ugh, lucky bitch”)_ — and instead focuses on the intimacy of the pair’s body language in the shot. That’s not just a friendly embrace. Not unless Lexa allows some _very confusing_ boundary lines with her friends.

Another point on the board for Clarke’s intuition, then.

Despite this revelation spurring a hopeful little swell of champagne corks popping and fireworks bursting in Clarke’s chest, it lasts only as long as it takes her to remember that she can do precisely _nothing_ with it. Even if she’s not cast in _Break Slow,_ which — all the day’s events considered, is most likely the course Clarke’s ship is going to sail with that — Lexa is Octavia’s _boss._ Lincoln’s, too. Hell, she’s the boss of anyone who cashes a paycheck with _Gonakru’s_ logo stamped on it, that’s how much of a boss she is. _(Somewhere in Clarke’s head, she hears herself give an exultant: “Right the fuck on!” when she comes to this conclusion. Because Lexa’s kind of a badass, and that degree of awesome deserves a shout out, yo.)_

Lincoln’s reveal about Lexa treating Clarke as an exception to her self-imposed rule is…well, _extraordinarily goddamn interesting,_ for sure. But Octavia has made it abundantly clear that if Clarke pursues this thing, getting her best friend to forgive her probably won’t be her main concern. It may run closer to relearning how to breathe with O’s clunkiest, _ow-iest_ boot permanently jammed in her spleen. 

And if — and this would only happen by way of a peculiar cosmic misalignment or some kind of voodoo interference at this point, she’s reasonably certain — Clarke’s actually cast in the show? No matter what might have started simmering during her run-in with Lexa today, that fire is _out._ _Done._ Under no circumstances could she risk even casual flirtation with her if they ended up working together on this. Lexa — an _actual_ grown up, not just the ramshackle imitation Clarke manages to pull off most days — would most likely reject that immediately. And though she hates to admit it, Octavia has a point. It could cause so many ugly complications. _(Considering her track record with poor life choices already, she’s had her fill of those, thank you.)_ This is too important to her. She wants this too intensely to screw it up. 

She can drop the forced chill about it here, now, with no one else around to bother pretending for. The moment she found _Break Slow,_ she wanted _in._ Before she ever knew Lexa’s eyes or voice or _god, how impossibly gorgeous she looks when she smiles…_

 _(Shut that down. Focus.)_

Before any of that, she only knew Lexa’s words. That’s what called her out of hiding. She surfaced again because Lexa’s words — even dispensed in unconnected scenes and haunting scraps at at a time — struck like a bell inside her, and shivered. 

She just never anticipated the author would make her feel the same way. 

_Fuck._

She can do this. No matter how this falls. She can get over this, and move past it. She has to.

She drifts off that night with her laptop still balanced on her stomach, Lexa’s photo from _Gonakru’s_ staff page keeping watch.

**************

Three days later, Octavia and Clarke both get the call. 

Octavia finds out first, bounding into Clarke’s room and pouncing on her, shrieking in excitement. The screeching wake-up call sends Clarke into an alarmed, flailing flurry of half-remembered martial arts moves she’d had to learn during her _Skytide_ days, but she’s so out of it she only manages to tangle herself up in her blankets and fall out of bed. 

Octavia laughs for five uninterrupted minutes over it.

That afternoon, Indra calls Clarke. 

When she delivers the news, Clarke spills an entire cup of orange juice all over the sketch she’d been working on.

She’s… _in._ A production meeting on Friday, casting for roles will be announced then. Rehearsals begin the following week.

Clarke hangs up, and just stares at the ruined sketch, at the puddle of orange juice spreading slowly across the floor. _Holy hell._

The first fully-formed thought that hits her is: _Somewhere out there is a voodoo queen I think I may owe a soul to now._


	3. Little Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you enough for the comments and kudos, everybody. It keeps the fires lit when my everydays try like hell to douse them smooth out. Eyes up and fight on...
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of The Beths  
> .  
> 

When she follows Octavia into the theater that first day, Clarke feels something benevolent rise up and click back into place inside her; it’s like the comfort of seeing a long-lost friend again.

The proscenium stage is bare, curtains drawn back and secured in place, exposing a mish mash of lights and rigging and scrims. Cables dangle loosely from the catwalks above, and ropes and pulleys criss-cross the cinderblock walls running stage left and right — puzzle pieces waiting to be snapped together into a cohesive, functional entity. She swears all that empty space actually _vibrates_ with potential. There’s something so sacred about a stage laid wide open and ready like this, as if it’s crying out: _Make me whole again. Turn me into something glorious._

The place smells earthy…a blend of fresh lumber for set building stacked high along the back of the stage and just the slightest undercurrent of must, the ever-present signature of drippy pipes and old insulation every building with some age in its bones seems to share. It reminds Clarke of her college auditorium a little and enhances the familiarity factor even more, helping to dampen the nervous quaking that’s kicked off in her gut. She detects a trace of cedar, too — _or sandalwood, maybe?_ — adding a layer of sweetness to the air.

Despite being ten minutes early, they are one of the last to arrive. Actors and crew members and technicians are already clumped together in the first two rows of seats, some with binders and notebooks, others with laptops. There’s a murmur of quiet chatter among them, but the prevailing attitude of the room seems to be one of: _“keep it down, we’re working here.”_ It’s the gravity of _Gonakru,_ the thing she’s felt since her first visit to this theater. _Significance._

Underneath that, though, she senses a layer of edgy excitement pinging around, as well. It’s not quite first day of school proportions, since the majority of the assembled group are company members and this is established routine for them. Nevertheless, today is a _beginning._ A new play. A new production. _Anything can happen._

Clarke slips into a seat next to Octavia and peers around the room anxiously. (And if she’s maybe seeking out a certain playwright among the faces in the crowd, so what? She can still _look._ ) But she doesn’t find Lexa anywhere, and despite feeling the slightest nick of disappointment at that, she’s honestly a little relieved. She knows she’s going to see her again, and Clarke’s readied herself for it, but she could really use a round of emotional warm-ups and stretching first. Walking back into all of this is enough to grapple with; seeing Lexa right now could very well send her wits screaming off to seek kinder treatment somewhere else. _I’ve been pretty brutal with them lately,_ she concedes. 

She does spot Echo sitting on the row in front of them, though, chatting with a sandy-haired woman who Clarke recognizes from one of the productions she’s seen here. _Nina, maybe? Nala? No, that’s the Lion King, dummy._ She can’t remember.

_So Echo made the cut, then. Should be interesting._

She nudges Octavia and nods toward Echo. 

Octavia sees her and immediately snarls, rolling her eyes. “Fucking…of course…” she mutters.

Clarke snickers at O before continuing her scan of the room.

Lincoln’s there, too, parked next to this beautiful Latin woman Clarke’s never met before. She’s telling a story, hands waving wildly and her animated face contorting as she relays the tale to Lincoln. She suddenly grabs her glossy, dark ponytail and yanks it to the side, bugging her eyes and sticking out her tongue, and whatever she’s saying right now has Lincoln cracking up. 

She must feel Clarke’s focus on her, because she abruptly turns, and catches her watching. Her face sets into a wary, puzzled expression, sizing Clarke up. There’s an intelligence crackling in those eyes, a fierce quickness that raises Clarke’s hackles a bit. _She’s trouble, that one._

The woman notices Octavia sitting beside Clarke, and calls out to her. “What’s the matter, Octavia? You too good to sit with the riff raff now?”

Octavia cranes her neck to look over at her. “Aw, come on, Raven. Don’t be jealous, babe. You know you’re still my number one work wife.”

 _Ooooooh, Raven._ Clarke remembers Harper’s veiled warning about her from audition day. _Definitely trouble._

Raven giggles and gives Octavia the finger. Octavia blows her a kiss.

“It’s Clarke’s first day here,” Octavia says, throwing her arm around Clarke’s neck and reeling her in, smooshing their faces together. 

Clarke squirms free of O’s grasp with an aggrieved sigh. 

“I didn’t want any of you lot scaring her off.”

Raven quirks a dubious eyebrow at them. “This is Clarke? Nerdy roommate Clarke? Holy shit, dude, the way you’ve talked about her, I pictured someone way more white bread and ironed jeans than… _this._ She’s a hottie!” 

Raven’s talking so loudly now Clarke swears the word _“hottie”_ echoes around the room at least twelve times. In her periphery, she sees heads swiveling toward them.

“Thank you?” Clarke says, shrugging at Raven, slightly humiliated. Raven gives her a lazy salute. 

Clarke leans over to Octavia and whispers: “What the hell is up with me and ironed jeans lately?”

“Who knows,” Octavia whispers back. “Maybe you’re just putting off a vibe.” 

Clarke squishes down in her seat and puts her chin in her hand. “I mean, do you really think so little of me, O? I’ve never ironed a damn thing my whole life…” she grumbles. 

Octavia flips through the binder in her lap and gives a dismissive wave over her shoulder. “Don’t let her rattle your chains, alright? Raven’s…well, you’ll see. It’s hard to describe how that girl ticks. She’s the tits, though.” 

Clarke’s prepped to launch into several salient points about why Raven gets to be _“the tits”_ in Octavia’s world while she’s relegated to only _“nerdy roommate Clarke”_ when Indra and Anya walk out onto the stage. 

The room falls silent. 

_Here we go…_

“Good morning, everyone,” Indra says, her steady alto filling the space easily. “And welcome. I want to thank all of you for being here. We’ll try to keep today as brief as possible. We’ve got some paperwork to finalize with all of you, contracts to sign, things like that. We’ll also get you assigned to your dressing rooms for the duration of this production, and the cast will be meeting with our costume designer, Niylah, to take measurements.” Indra indicates the woman who was chatting with Echo earlier.

_Niylah. That’s it._

“Most importantly, though…” Indra continues. “We’ll be handing out full scripts of _Break Slow_ to each of you. This being a premiere of a new work, we haven’t been able to provide the finished text to you until all hiring decisions were made. There are non-disclosure agreements in your contracts that cover this in detail, but we’re calling upon your discretion and professional integrity from here on out. Please do not share this play with anyone who is not involved with the production. Don’t let anyone else read it. Don’t discuss it. We’re giving you something invaluable today, so protect it. It all stays here, understood?”

Grave nods all around the theater.

“Alright, then. All of you have met Anya by now…” Indra motions to the surly stage manager, who glares at them in response.

 _And then some,_ thinks Clarke.

“She’ll be the Production Stage Manager for this show,” Indra explains. “She’s your first stop if you need something, and she will relay your messages to the other members of the production team and technical crew. As a courtesy, please do not approach the team directly before you’ve spoken to Anya.”

(At this information, Clarke gets a cartoonish mental image of Anya burning a stack of messages and requests with Clarke’s name on them, laughing maniacally as they smolder.)

“Our lighting and sound designer, Raven.” Indra points.

“Word,” Raven drawls, throwing a peace sign into the air. “Also, the person you’ll be coming to when something breaks. And trust me, something will always break around here. Like last week when that circuit tripped, and all of you started flipping your damn gourds about — ”

“Raven’s technicians are Monty and Jasper,” Indra resumes, cutting off the end of Raven’s rant.

Two young guys — one short and slight with an adorable face and side swept hair, the other a gangly dude who has that _“perma-stoned”_ look about him — wave in tandem from their spot on the aisle. 

Raven hoots loudly at their introduction. “My babies!” she cries, throwing kisses at the pair. 

Anya rolls her eyes at Raven, but Clarke swears there’s just the _tiniest_ shred of fondness there. It so astounding she actually does a double take.

“Miller, Murphy, Harper and Monroe will be not only our backstage technical crew, but each have smaller roles in the cast, as well. Niylah will be assisting stage right for quick changes, and will also be playing the part of _Marcella._ Of course, this is going to be incredibly difficult and delicate. These five are going to be busy, and always moving during the show. Be considerate, and stay out of their way backstage, please.”

“Damn,” Lincoln pipes up. “I think that deserves some applause, ya’ll.” He claps, and everyone in the theater (except Anya, Clarke notes) joins in. 

If Anya’s the Production Stage Manager, the backstage crew will be her chief responsibility. And she’s just standing there with her head cocked at all of them like pulling off something as tricky as what Indra’s describing should be _nothing, so cut it out, you imbeciles._

Clarke feels a wave of sympathy for these courageous bastards. She can only imagine how miserable an experience reporting to Anya would be. Her managerial style probably falls on the spectrum somewhere around: _“Get it done, or I start taking fingers.”_

Indra quiets the room again. “And that leaves our main cast. Since none of you have been privy to the full script yet, some of these roles may not sound familiar, but we’ll get there. You’ll have to put some trust your creative team for now, okay? So…that being said…we have Lincoln, who will be our _Darius.”_

Beside her, Octavia claps and hollers and makes an all-around fool out of herself. She’s not alone, either — the room cranks up to an ear-splitting volume as soon as his name is announced. Lincoln just flashes that lovely smile at all of them and waves off the cheers. 

“Echo, who will playing _Sabine.”_ The theater erupts again, and Echo gives them all the full _“oh, stop…really”_ humility routine. (Which is _almost_ believable. Her acting skills really have improved over the years.)

“Octavia will be _Emlyn.”_

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to holler. She shakes Octavia so hard she jiggles, and surprisingly, all O does about it is duck her head and laugh. _Well, at least I get the chance to embarrass her for once,_ Clarke thinks. 

“Alright, alright…easy there, Griff,” Octavia mumbles. The tips of her ears are red.

“And finally, Clarke, who will be…”

(Clarke waits for her to say something like: _“Woman Holding Candle”_ or _“Lost Traveler Mauled by Wolves”_ …)

“ _Devin_ ,” Indra finishes. 

Clarke blinks. Octavia claps her on the shoulder and grins widely. “Hell yeah!” she proclaims. 

Clarke smiles shakily at the applause she receives and gives the room a small nod of thanks, trying not to let all the inquisitive eyes fastened on her completely unravel the sliver of cool she’s struggling to maintain. ( _Besides Echo, she seems to be the only other outsider here, and that’s distressing enough. It sucks being the new girl._ ) But she has a far more pressing crisis to deal with right now. She has no idea what role she’s just been assigned. _Who the hell is Devin? Did I read anything about a Devin?_

She’s so distracted she doesn’t realize that Indra’s still talking until she fades back in for: “…and I’ll be serving as the Assistant Director. So let’s bring out your Director, and your author…Lexa Woods.”

Even before Lexa’s made her way out of the wings, the place explodes. People are on their feet, Raven’s whistling like a _World Cup_ ref calling a penalty…the response is easily ten times more deafening than anything the rest of them has gotten out of this group so far, and Clarke learns in that decibel-shattering moment that — for all their no-nonsense convictions — Gonakru can be fucking _rowdy._

 _Oh shit, Lexa’s directing this, too?_ She rises on suddenly unsteady legs and claps, but her movements feel like they’ve slowed to half-speed, and her hands have just gone _kaput_ at the end of her arms. She might as well be slapping a couple wads of _Jell-o_ together for how uncoordinated it seems. 

_Goddamn it._ She’d prepared for this. Braced herself for this exact moment. But _Jesus_ , it feels like every mechanism inside her is breaking down in a _Rube Goldberg_ -style catastrophic failure right now.

Lexa ( _Sweet mother of mercy, she looks beautiful…_ ) strides to the middle of the stage and gives them a brilliant smile, but there’s a rigidity to her movements suggesting she’s maybe a bit self-conscious about the overwhelming response. 

Clarke’s knees shake. _Staaaahp, already._

She motions for the company to settle, gaining control almost instantly just by lifting one elegant hand into the air. Everyone, even Raven, quiets and returns to their seats. It’s impressive how easily she grabs hold of the room, how every face turned to her is not just attentive and respectful, but also glowing with something that looks almost like adoration to Clarke. These people aren’t just giving their director polite regard; they _care_ for her. 

Well, at least in this crowd, she might have a shot at hiding her bothersome infatuation problem until she can actually rid herself of it. _(Unless I can’t get a grip on whatever weird thing is happening to me right now and fall out in front of everybody like a swooning pre-teen at some boy band show. That would be a tad suspect.)_

Because she’s realizing — at a terribly inopportune time — all her careful prep work leading up to this has obviously been an abject failure. _Sonuvabitch._

_Come on, Griffin. Pull it together._

“Thank you all so much,” Lexa says, and Clarke closes her eyes briefly against the battering her senses take at hearing that voice again. _Breathe in…_

“…First of all, I want to say that again, so you all understand how much I really mean it. Thank you. Thank you for being here, thank you for stepping forward into this with me. It’s a huge leap, I well know, to agree to something before you really have an idea where it might lead. So I commend all of you for your bravery.” 

A few soft chuckles from the group at that. Even though she’s dressed casually again in a black pullover sweater and jeans, Lexa’s shoulders are back, her head held high. It’s that assured posture Clarke recognizes from her bio photo, but actually being in the room with this variation of Lexa is a bit like touching an electrified wire. There’s a determined strength to her presence now that, this close, feels almost as if it could _ignite._

Clarke fleetingly wonders if this is truly another facet of the potential multiverse she’s discovering Lexa Woods contains, or just a confident persona she can conjure when needed; an illusion she holds between herself and the world when she’s called upon to stand front and center. Like this is the _Wizard_ and the _real_ Lexa, the one who blushes and banters and who — for a stunning moment only — held out her bare, broken soul for Clarke to see… _she’s_ the one who really lives behind the curtain. 

Whatever the case, the effect is _compelling_ as hell. Lexa looks as though she is ready to march them all to battle right now. _Breathe out…_

“And since I realize some of you are new to the way we do things here, I want to make another point clear at the beginning,” Lexa continues. “When we tell stories at _Gonakru_ , we do so because they matter to us. We hope the same is true for the audiences we give them to, but it begins and ends with this entire company standing together to say _we feel this, we see this, and we want you to understand, too.”_

She’s pacing across the stage now, her arms folded behind her back, head down. She halts to formulate how to proceed and glances up, sweeping her fiery stare to some point over their heads, as if she’ll find the answer up there. “That is what you sign on for when you work with us. Unity. All of us at your back, always. We take care of each other here. We support each other.”

Her mouth _(god, her mouth)_ falls, and she tucks her chin down. “If we don’t…” she says quietly, “…the work won’t feel remotely real or true, and we won’t reach those who need to hear it.”

She looks up again, squaring her frame, and that intensity rekindles in her expression. “Four days from now, rehearsals commence, and we’ll conduct our first table read. But before we do…” She scans the crowd, landing on Lincoln. “I have an assignment for the actors.” 

She turns to Indra, and takes the _Break Slow_ script from her, holding it up. “Read this. Every word. And if it doesn’t strike true for you…if you discover it’s not a story you want to tell with me, I want to know before we meet back here again.” She’s seeking out cast members as she speaks, directing her words to each of them in turn. “Be honest. Be honest with me, be honest with yourselves. Because when we all sit down together that first time, and the real work begins…” 

Her gaze finally shifts to Clarke. In an instant, Clarke’s pulse hammers madly; she can feel it juddering hot and frantic beneath her jawline. Her face _burns._ She can’t seem to move under the force of that stare.

“I’ll need your full hearts at the table with me.” There’s a heaviness to Lexa’s voice now, imparting how profoundly serious she is about this, and she lets her eyes linger on Clarke just long enough for a wisp of _something_ to flicker there. 

Clarke actually _shivers._

Lexa looks away, takes the moment with her. 

She addresses the whole group again. “I’ll leave it there for now…” she says, and begins to fold up as she moves away from center stage, growing less fervent, lighter. “…as we have several detail items to cover today.” She smiles gently as she looks around the room once more. “But use these next days well, because soon enough, time and rest will become a luxury for us all. Ask the questions that must be asked. Prepare yourselves. And next week…”

Lexa stops, and seems to debate a point with herself momentarily. As if she wants to say more, but decides to hold onto it, instead. She shakes her head once. “Next week…be ready.” She finishes in a softer tone, even if what she’s leaving them with could be interpreted as little else than an order. A challenge, at the very least. 

This time, no one applauds. In the stillness that hangs after, Clarke glances under her lashes at Octavia for a cue, and sees how much taller O sits now, the obstinate lift of her chin, the shine in her eyes. Notices how many others around them are buzzing with the same earnest resolve. Lexa has hit her mark squarely. If she asked them to go to war right now, Clarke has no doubt anyone in this group would hesitate to jump right into the fight. 

Lexa pulls back and looks over her shoulder to Indra. “Into your capable hands, Indra.”

Indra seamlessly steps into the space Lexa’s now departing, handing over a notebook to the director as she passes. There’s a wordless ease to the move that speaks to a lengthy, practiced working relationship between these two women. 

Indra picks up the thread immediately. “First on the agenda, let’s get dressing rooms sorted, and then Anya and I will be issuing contracts…”

Lexa slips to the edge of the stage and leans against the wall.

Clarke tries to concentrate on what Indra’s telling them, but her eyes keep drifting away, falling on Lexa instead. She’s thumbing through her notebook now, absorbed in whatever she’s reading, that keen intensity still evident even when Lexa’s just standing there, silently studying her pages. The woman simply _hums_ with it. 

Lexa idly twirls a pen between her fingers exactly like some grifter in a noir film might roll a coin — one-handed and cool as _fuck,_ the pen passing over her digits in a fluid, hypnotic motion Clarke can’t stop watching. She stares at those long, graceful fingers moving and feels her traitorous imagination inch toward decidedly unwholesome territory…

And rears back from those thoughts so hard she nearly slides out of her chair. _Nope. Nuh uh._

Irritated at herself, she shakes her head, then steals one more quick look at the director. 

Finds Lexa watching her with a small, curious slant of her head. _Oh bloody hell…_

Their eyes catch, and Lexa’s mouth curves with amusement for a split second before she cuts her attention back to her notebook. 

That’s all it takes for Clarke’s heart to scramble up and sprint again. 

_Yeah, forget just passing out,_ she thinks. _At this rate, I’m not going to make it out of this room alive._

******************

Due to _Gonakru’s_ space limitations, they are told most of the actors will be sharing dressing rooms, and Clarke’s more than pleased when she’s assigned to one with Octavia. 

When they found out, Octavia made some rude crack about how _“she just didn’t know if she could handle that much 24/7 Clarke in her space”_ and kept poking at her until Clarke threatened to switch assignments with Echo. It was a bluff, and they both knew it. _(Besides, Echo got a solo suite. Because…well, of course.)_ But it shut Octavia up, anyway.

Their dressing room is small, but tailored smartly to provide the most convenient set up for the actors, with little added touches that will make it easier to get ready each performance. There’s even a worn, overstuffed leather couch in here, and when Clarke stretches out on it for the first time, she’s delighted to discover it might be the most sinfully comfortable piece of furniture she’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. She hasn’t budged from it since she got back from her measurement session with Niylah. 

That had been…an experience. 

Niylah’s kind of got this _mystical hedge witch_ aura about her. She says things like: _“Thank Gaia!”_ and dresses like she’s perpetually on her way to _Coachella,_ lots of skirts and scarves and dangly necklaces that clatter together when she moves. She also has an upbeat inquisitiveness that caught Clarke off-guard when she arrived at the costumer’s workshop. As soon as she stepped into the room, Niylah began peppering her with questions, covering everything from her TV work, where she went to school, her art, how she liked living in New York…just this constant stream of chatter that kept flowing the whole time she darted around Clarke with her tape measure. 

Between the lightning round of inquiries and the heavy lavender fragrance the costumer was wearing, Clarke’s head felt a little muzzy by the end of their session. Niylah was exceptionally friendly, though; it was clear she was just attempting to make her feel welcome, so despite feeling moderately assaulted, Clarke appreciated her kindness.

Octavia’s with Niylah now, and once they’re issued scripts both of them will be released for the day, which is a bit of a relief. She could use a minute to process and come down from the excited rush today has been. None of this has completely settled for her just yet; she’s longing for her loft and some quiet decompression time.

She sighs and curls up on her side, snuggling down into the pillowy couch cushions with a contented groan. A moment later, the door snicks open.

“O, when all of this is over, we’re stealing this couch,” Clarke says without turning over. “I’m pretty sure now that my ass has known this level of unholy bliss, I won’t be able to live without it.”

Nothing but silence behind her.

She rolls over and finds the _categorically last person she would ever want to hear what just came out of her mouth_ leaning against the door frame.

“Well, it looks like you’re settling in alright,” Lexa smirks.

 _Christ on a cracker…_ Clarke shoots to her feet and fumbles a bit to right herself, gaping in open-mouthed horror at Lexa. “I’m so sorry, I thought —“

Lexa quickly flutters a hand between them. “No, no, no…” she protests. “I’m sorry. I thought you were both still down in the costume shop. I would have knocked, otherwise. My apologies, Clarke.”

Clarke ducks her head and struggles to keep her cheeks from bursting aflame. “Not necessary, really. I mean…oh my god.” She stalls out, running a hand through her hair and laughing weakly. When she finally braves a glance at the director again, she’s nearly wincing. _Shit._ “Maybe it’s one of those _‘third time’s the charm’_ things?” she blurts.

Lexa raises her eyebrows, a wrinkle of confusion forming between her eyes.

“Us running into one another, I mean,” Clarke explains. “Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll manage to not make it one of the most tragically uncomfortable moments ever.” She’s talking so fast.

Lexa shrugs and rolls her shoulders back. “Well…in fairness, it would probably help if I’d quit sneaking up on you.” A faint grin teases at the corners of her mouth, and just like that, Clarke relaxes somewhat.

She nods emphatically. “Yeah, okay. Let’s call it your fault. I like that idea better.”

Lexa’s grin widens briefly before she levels out her expression, switching to business mode in the space of a breath. “I’m just dropping these off.” 

She holds out two script copies to Clarke, who reaches for them on auto pilot, still trying to collect herself. When she steps forward, she catches a trace of that enticing sandalwood aroma from inside the theater, and realizes it’s the scent the director is wearing. _Of course she would smell phenomenal, too. Good god._ She’s careful not to brush her trembling hand against Lexa’s as she passes the scripts to her.

“Thank you.” 

There’s a break in which Clarke stares down at the scripts without seeing them, really, and Lexa just hovers in the doorway, looking unsure.

“I just wanted to —“

“Listen, the other day —“

They stop, biting off their sentences at the same moment. 

Clarke finds herself giggling helplessly. “I’m sorry. Please…you first.”

Lexa scrunches her brow, deciding where to begin. “I just wanted to say thank you again for this.” She points to the copies clutched in Clarke’s arms. “For giving this a chance, I mean.”

Clarke angles her head at her, wide eyed. “Are you kidding? If anyone should be handing out thanks, it’s definitely me. I can’t believe I’m actually here. I’m still sort of half expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say: _‘Ms. Griffin, we’re sorry, but there’s been a terrible mistake’…”_ She grins and hugs the scripts to her chest.

Lexa searches her face for a long moment, not smiling. “Your being here is definitely not a mistake, Clarke,” she finally says. Quiet, but firm. 

Clarke swallows, suddenly feeling like she’s taken a misstep. Lexa doesn’t seem upset, just… _disappointed, maybe? Oh no, crap…defensive. I mean, she hired you, dumbass. You probably just offended the hell out of her._ A twinge of regret grips Clarke’s gut, and she hastens to change course. “Well, on the subject of mistakes…” She looks down at the scripts and back up. “I do feel a like a bit of a moron for not realizing who I was talking to the other day.”

Now it’s Lexa’s turn to look remorseful. She nods, and focuses on the ceiling. “I could understand how that might have come as a surprise,” she admits softly, checking Clarke’s reaction.

Clarke just arches her eyebrows and waits.

“And I probably should have…” Lexa stumbles on. “You know. I just didn’t quite know how to…well, you know…” She shuffles in place and drops her eyes to the floor.

Lexa’s halting discomfort about the topic wakes that irrational beast inside Clarke that will always, _always_ try to diffuse a situation by joking, even when the timing could be off. Even when she’s talking to the one person whose opinion of her right now supersedes the Arts section of the _Times_ and Santa’s combined, given her _(possibly unhealthy)_ preoccupation with the director. She lets it lumber forward, anyway.

“Well, when you put it like that, sure,” she quips. And she could just stop there, assess the damage, but no… _no._ She keeps _going._ “Have you ever considered becoming a writer? You have _such_ a gift with language, Lexa.”

Lexa’s eyes snap back to Clarke, and she just _stares._ For one heart-squeezing moment, Clarke fears she really may have gone too far. She doesn’t breathe. _Oh, fuck. I’m fired. Fuck, fuck, fuck…_

And then Lexa bursts out laughing. It’s this astonishing, full, melodic sound that causes Clarke’s face to light up the moment she hears it. Lexa quickly claps a hand over her mouth and checks over her shoulder to make sure no one else is within earshot.

The director opens her mouth to respond, stops, and then shakes her head, appearing frazzled for only a second before she regains her footing. She shoots Clarke a wry, unimpressed look as she backs toward the door. “Until next week, Clarke,” she says quietly, and dips her head once before retreating down the hallway.

Clarke stands there gaping at the doorway for a good two minutes before she can make herself move again. 

****************

As soon as they returned to the loft, Octavia and Clarke parted ways and sequestered themselves in their respective bedrooms to read their scripts.

Clarke’s just finished hers, and she’s staring at the last line, feeling a bit like someone’s dropped an anvil on her chest. _Holy shit._

The preview pages they’d received before auditions didn’t provide many details. They had been given a few rough character outlines, not much more than an age range and a handful of minor specs around which to base their auditions. And some of the characters (like Clarke’s role) had not even been included in the previews, so the completed work is just that much more astounding on first read. Lexa’s left the setting vague — it could be a thousand years ago or a hundred years in the future, after some cataclysmic societal breakdown has reclaimed the modern conveniences of our time, making this world virtually unrecognizable. The characters fight with knives and swords and live by the seasons; they’ve returned to agrarian ways in order to survive.

The crux of the story revolves around Sabine, Echo’s role. Sabine is the supreme ruler of this harsh new order — part queen, part military commander — whom everyone refers to as _The Empress._ She is saddled with enormous responsibilities and stares down perils at every turn, but has somehow survived years of leadership. Sabine governs her lands with a wisdom carved from brutal, grueling experience. 

She’s endured several traumatic losses, too, including the murder of her lover, Marcella (played by Niylah.) Marcella’s killers have so far eluded capture, a fact that haunts Sabine.

Clarke plays Devin, a musician who has been accused of playing a role in Marcella’s death, but she was just an unwitting bystander. A victim of terrible timing and circumstance. (Clarke can relate. If she were a Jane Austen novel, her title would be _“Terrible Timing and Circumstance”.)_

When Devin found out she’d been implicated, she ran. She’s been in hiding for almost a year, and has attempted to find Marcella’s murderers on her own in an effort to clear her name. She’s discovered and apprehended, though. At the opening of the play, Devin has been imprisoned within a kind of capitol city that serves as Sabine’s stronghold and base of operations. Sabine’s advisors and subjects are demanding Devin’s execution.

Darius and Emlyn (Lincoln and Octavia) are Sabine’s generals. Darius is unwaveringly loyal to Sabine, and the closest thing to a friend she’s allowed herself to have, given her position. He is the one person in her circle who will tell her the truth, even when it’s unflattering.

Emlyn is _ruthless._ She fights viciously for Sabine and, in her own way, is as loyal to her as Darius, but she struggles with the gentler, more thoughtful natures of the other two at times. Emlyn’s idea of conflict resolution usually ends with her running her sword through someone.

Sabine and Devin have developed an unexpected accord since Devin’s imprisonment. Their relationship borders on cautious friendship, underscored with this delicious, _intense_ subtext between the two characters that had Clarke twisting her blankets between her fists as she read it, because… _damn._ (On its own, the writing is sexy as hell, but knowing _Lexa_ wrote it is making her brain kind of melt.)

Sabine desperately wants to believe Devin, but without any evidence to back up her claims of innocence, and the crushing pressure of everyone crying out for Devin’s blood, they’re at a shaky impasse. 

Sabine still has doubts, even if her instincts are screaming Devin is innocent. And her people will not allow her to simply release Devin. Not without it appearing as though Sabine’s gone soft, and inviting yet another attempt to overthrow her. 

Finally, time and options give out, and Devin’s execution is scheduled. The pair says farewell in this agonizing, frustrating scene, and then (because, seriously, she didn’t know if she could actually participate in this otherwise) Devin discovers something at the eleventh hour that saves her. One of Sabine’s top advisors, a character named Saul, turns out to be the orchestrator of Marcella’s death. _Who’s playing that one again? Maybe that shifty-eyed guy Murphy I never got to meet today…_

Devin is pardoned, and Lexa ends the play with Devin and Sabine meeting each other again in Sabine’s throne room, watching the moon rise together. Devin is free, Sabine is as safe as she will ever be in this harsh world, and they finally have some possibilities stretching out in front of them. They just have to choose what to do next.

Lexa leaves it there. No epilogue. No spelling it out for the audience. Just the two women, the moon, and a _maybe_ between them. But god, it fucking _works._

It’s a story about forgiveness and trust and discovering that, even if you can’t believe it to be true, having someone to rely on in this life is one of the most crucial, important things ever offered us. None of us can do it alone. None of us can survive it.

And finding someone who _gets_ you? Well, that’s extraordinary. If you are fortunate enough to find that, it must be cherished. Held close. 

It’s a beautiful, encouraging sentiment written by someone who has clearly — it’s so unmistakably etched into every deliberate, lonesome word — felt wretchedly isolated at some point. Clarke sees it, because she’s known it, too.

And she _breaks_ for Lexa.

She stares at the final page and lets her thoughts churn until a quiet knock on her door pulls her back.

Octavia stands in the hallway, her script clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Clarke’s startled to note the puffy, tell-tale signs of recent tears around her eyes. 

She’s seen O cry exactly three times before. Once when her dog Ziggy died, and twice when Octavia was too drunk to stand properly and therefore unable to stop herself. 

O simply _does not_ cry. 

She gives her copy a baffled, accusatory glare. “I mean…holy shit.”

Clarke laughs in understanding and pulls Octavia in for a hug, who resists only slightly before allowing the embrace. “I know. I know…” she soothes.


	4. Troublemaker Doppelgänger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I got an unexpected snow day reprieve from work...surprise! Chapter 4.
> 
> I've mostly been writing/editing this in the wee, bleary-eyed hours when reasonable folks are actually doing things like catching sleep, so apologies in advance for typos or anything blatantly ridiculous. I'm flying without a net here. (And by "a net", I mean good sense or another set of eyes on what is steadily becoming a monstrosity. I do go on sometimes...)
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading and keeping me going, you beautiful wonders. Stay shiny.
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Lucy Dacus

Echo slaps her palm against the massive table between them. “If that were true, did it not occur to you to seek help?”

Clarke levels a scowl at Echo. “And just where should I have looked, hmm? Or have you forgotten who I am?” Her voice is even, but venomous, fury dripping from each low, husky syllable.

“Never,” Echo insists. “But perhaps _you_ have.”

That fires Clarke right back up. “How can you _possibly_ —“ she growls, before a sizzling crash rings out overhead.

“Jesus, fuck!” Octavia cries, launching back from the table.

Indra tips her chair back to stare up at the catwalk above them. “Raven, that sounded expensive,” she calls out, her tone remarkably cool, considering the circumstances. 

“And I’m fine, thanks for asking!” Raven calls back.

Lexa looks at the assembled actors around the table and sighs, pushing up from her chair. “This seems like an appropriate time to take a break, everyone. We’ll pick up there in fifteen.” 

She’s off and heading toward the havoc Raven’s created before any of the rest of them have even stirred. 

Clarke stands, shaking her hands out to her sides in an effort to expel the angry energy she’d been drawing upon a moment ago. She glances across the table at Echo, who smiles at her knowingly.

“That was excellent, Clarke,” Echo says quietly, leaning in. “I loved what you were putting down there.”

She ducks her head at the praise and gives a knee-jerk reply. “Thanks. You, too.”

They’ve been working together for over a week now, and Clarke’s been pleasantly surprised to discover Echo has brought very little of her old self to these rehearsals. She’s been supportive and complimentary with the entire cast, and her acting abilities have definitely strengthened. In fact, Echo’s got superb instincts; she has an adept sense of timing and this malleable, openhanded approach to the way she engages the other actors that is so unexpected based on her personality. 

Outside of the theater, she can still have moments of being a total self-centered asshole, (Clarke caught her railing at her beleaguered assistant over what sounded like Echo’s _Instagram_ feed not picking up as much traffic as one of her show’s co-stars), but in here — when they’re working opposite one another — she’s fully locked in with her no matter where the scene drives them. It’s actually been kind of exhilarating so far. 

Clarke looks over to where Lexa stands with Indra, hashing out whatever problem is going on above them. Indra points up at the lighting equipment as she explains something, and Lexa nods, brows knitted together, her hands on her hips. 

Clarke sighs. _If only everything were going as well._

From the moment rehearsals began, Lexa’s been different with her. Their first day back, Lexa walked into the theater with this aloof formality attached that left Clarke mystified and more than a little hurt. And she _shouldn’t_ be; Lexa did _nothing_ wrong. (She can acknowledge that. _She can._ ) 

The director treated her with the same amiable respect as all of the other actors, but she barely made eye contact with Clarke that day and diverted any attempt to bait her into letting go of the exasperating diplomacy she seemed resolved to hold between them. Clarke surrendered before they even broke for lunch. _You’re working together now. This is how it has to be._

They’ve been in a kind of holding pattern ever since. 

As a director, Lexa is solicitous; she gives the actors plenty of leeway to explore and see what unfolds before she steps in to shape the trajectory of their performances. Their fleeting exchanges are what’s kept Clarke from complete crestfallen despair about all the restraint separating them now. She still gets _those_ heart-rattling moments, at least. Lexa approaching her, standing close while she relays astute insights about what her character might be considering in a particular scene, or how she could play something differently, and she can get swallowed up in Lexa’s focus for a precious span of breaths. 

She can indulge that selfish, stowed away part of her that _knows_ better, knows she’s just prolonging her misery, but still longs for more. 

She _knows,_ but she can’t seem to shut it off, regardless. 

Her feelings about the whole situation have travelled from wounded to _pissed_ to something like dull, grumbling acceptance in order to concentrate on rehearsals. And in between, she tries her best to ignore that nagging, disappointed tug in her chest every time her eyes land on Lexa.

Indra moves off to intercept Anya, who’s just emerged offstage and looks absolutely livid about Raven’s efforts to blow up their theater. Indra steers Anya away from Lexa with sly precision, taking the full force of the stage manager’s complaints like the resolute second-in-command champ she is, her expression stoic even as Anya rages and points wildly at the mess of lights and wires dangling from the ceiling. As they disappear into the wings, Clarke cocks an impressed eyebrow at Indra’s _ride-or-die_ willingness to throw herself on her sword for their director. _That’s loyalty, goddamn it._

Left standing alone, Lexa stretches her shoulders and shoves her hands in her front pockets, biting her bottom lip as she stares at the stage floor, deep in thought. She seems so far away, and Clarke can’t help but wonder where she’s gone to. 

_(She also kind of can’t stop staring at Lexa’s mouth, but that’s her lonely reptilian brain talking…)_

“Cut it out, Griffin,” Octavia admonishes, startling Clarke out of her contemplation of the director so badly she actually jumps.

“Damn it, O…” Clarke hisses. She frowns at Octavia. “Cut what out?”

Octavia gives her a bored, _“oh, please”_ smirk and thrusts a _Starbucks_ cup at her. 

Clarke accepts it, peering at the drink suspiciously. “Did you…? Did you buy me hot tea?”

Octavia shrugs. “You’re about to get into the shouty part of this scene next. Thought you could use it.”

Clarke smiles at her. O’s been more generous with her since they’ve been working together, and she’s not sure if it’s simply due to the encouraging atmosphere Lexa inspires her company members to maintain, or if she’s managed to gain a little more of O’s esteem by not making a complete ass out of herself here so far. Either way, she’ll gladly take it.

“Thanks, O.”

Octavia takes a sip of her own drink and looks across the stage at Lexa. “But you do need to put a leash on those eyes you keep throwing at _dark and broody_ over there.”

“I am _not_ throwing —“ Clarke objects.

“— You are,” Octavia counters before Clarke’s even finished speaking.

Clarke huffs. “I was just…” She regroups, batting away Octavia’s accusation. “I was just noticing she looks tired, that’s all.” 

Octavia’s disbelieving gaze doesn’t waver an inch, but she allows Clarke to deflect the subject for now. “She _is_ tired. She’s been tired since she opened this place. You’ll never get her to admit that, though.”

O puts her back to Lexa, effectively blocking Clarke’s view of the director. Clarke subconsciously steps to her left to put Lexa back in her sight line, a move that causes O to quirk an amused eyebrow at her.

“Stop it,” Clarke demands, annoyed. _(At herself, as much as Octavia.)_

Octavia snickers, then checks Lexa’s location, lowering her voice. “She works all the damn time,” she continues. “Has to keep all those plates spinning, you know? If she’s not here dealing with something like this…” She points to the catwalk above. 

“…Then she’s off with Indra hunting grants and raising money to keep our doors open or shooting off to L.A. to do some outside project. Cleaning up other people’s TV scripts, directing films, shit like that. She does it all to generate funds for _GN._ Puts every dollar she earns right back into this place.”

Clarke digests this. “Well… _god._ No wonder,” she breathes, glancing over to where Lexa’s back in conversation with Indra again. She turns back to Octavia, who studies her carefully.

“So maybe you can see now why we all take this shit so seriously around here, yeah? It’s not that we’re a bunch of pretentious dicks. We’ve just got one hell of a standard to measure up to.”

She pats Clarke on the cheek, and backs away toward the table, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at Lexa. “And most of us feel like we’ll never be able to repay her for what she’s done for us, either. It’s sort of like religion and guilt, you know? Keeps us in line.”

She winks and spins on her heel, sauntering back to work.

Clarke’s eyes slide to Lexa. Whatever she’s telling her assistant director now has Indra’s tense posture relaxing by the second, and Lexa caps their talk with a determined nod and quick squeeze of Indra’s forearm. It’s a gesture that says: _Don’t worry. I’m handling this._

Indra actually smiles at her _(Who knew she could do that?)_ before rejoining the group filtering back in from break.

Lexa flexes her shoulders again in what Clarke is beginning to notice might be a habitual move for the director, _(And now that I’m grasping what she’s got laid across those lovely shoulders, I can see why…),_ allowing only a flash of weary concern to cross her face before she smoothes out her expression. 

She exhales and glances up, finds Clarke observing her. 

Caught out, Clarke hesitates, but quickly covers with an understanding smile for the director. Lexa really looks like she could use some kindness right now.

And then something changes. Lexa’s eyes soften, and she gives this sweet, apologetic grin, as if she were slightly embarrassed about Clarke witnessing her slip. For one achingly brief moment, the barrier crumbles, and a glimmer of audition day Lexa peeks through.

Clarke’s insides tumble with spun-up cheer in response. She laughs gently and shakes her head at Lexa, sending her a look she hopes communicates: _Don’t be sorry._

The director dips her head, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. There’s such a vulnerability to the move Clarke has to clamp down on her impulse to take a step closer. 

The moment is dead ruined though when another resounding _bang_ shudders the catwalk overhead, and the lights in the entire theater flicker. 

Everyone shuts up at once, looking around in worry.

Raven breaks the anxious silence for them. “Still good!” she yells from the rafters.

Clarke’s eyes flit back to Lexa. She swears she sees the director mutter the words: _“Jesus, Raven…”_ under her breath as she heads back toward the table.

****************

“…So when you’re telling all of this to Darius on page 34,” Lexa says, leaning closer and pointing to a highlighted section of Clarke’s script, “…bear in mind what you need to accomplish by doing so. He is Sabine’s general first, and a potential ally second. Does that makes sense?” 

Clarke nods, tries to not stare at the graceful line of Lexa’s neck too long. She clears her throat. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

Rehearsal has just ended. Lexa is delivering her notes to the cast. Most of the other actors have already had their turn and are heading out for the evening; only Lexa, Echo, and Clarke remain on stage. Echo paces a few feet away from where Clarke and Lexa are standing, quietly running lines to herself while she waits for the director to finish up with Clarke. 

“Good,” Lexa replies, flipping a page in her notebook. “Okay. That’s all I have for you for now.” 

She looks back up at Clarke, and the color of her voice warms. “You did some fantastic work today. I really like what you’re doing with Devin. Very much.” The corner of her mouth lifts into a muted smile, eyes glittering with sincerity.

Clarke inhales unevenly and shakes her head as she begins to pack up her belongings, attempting to hide the wash of giddy elation that shoots through her at Lexa’s unexpected compliment and _god, those eyes._

“Thank you,” she murmurs softly, thrown. She motions to the empty table as she zips her bag. “But I’m just trying to keep up, you know? This cast is incredible to work with.”

Lexa cants her head and watches her for a moment, as if she’s examining what Clarke’s said. Finally, she glances away and nods at the table. There’s a remoteness in her gaze as she studies its weathered surface. 

“I agree. This play is rather…well, it’s not like most of the other things I’ve written. I wanted…” 

She halts, and Clarke’s attention is absolutely riveted on Lexa’s profile. It’s the first time she’s ever heard the director stray close to divulging something personal, and she’s so shocked her breath stutters still. 

But Lexa turns back to her and refocuses. Clarke can actually _see_ the moment her shutters drop back into place. _And there she goes…_

“I just…I’m really glad everyone’s meshing so well. We’re making a lot of progress.” 

Clarke can only nod, that ever-present knot of aggravation inside her tightening a little more. 

“We’ll probably start here tomorrow, so we can discuss it more once we have the full cast in for the scene,” Lexa says in that polite, utterly discouraging manner again. “We’ll see how we can shape it up then, okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Clarke says, fidgeting with the straps of her bag and trying not to frown. She struggles to come up with something else to ask that might keep Lexa talking, but she can’t summon a bloody thing. She finally just settles on a quiet: “Thank you.” 

Lexa shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she counters easily, moving to pick up her notebook. 

Clarke can tell she’s already preoccupied with her notes for Echo; she’s jumping on to the next order of business, even if Clarke can’t seem to do anything but linger there, watching her.

Lexa looks up. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” 

_Oh, if you only knew the half of it…_ she thinks. Outwardly, she takes a deep breath, and shakes her head.

Lexa smiles faintly. “Have a good evening, Clarke.”

“You too, Lexa,” Clarke answers. She can’t help that the words come out sounding a touch defeated. 

The director flicks a last glance at Clarke before slipping away to speak with Echo. 

Clarke hefts her bag over her shoulder and notices how Echo immediately steps into Lexa’s space as she approaches, moving closer to the director and placing a casual hand on her shoulder as they go over something in Echo’s script. 

It’s irksome, because Echo is as much of a stranger to this theater as she is, and yet this isn’t the first time Clarke’s picked up on the minutely familiar way the actress interacts with Lexa. Nor the more natural ease the director seems to have around Echo, versus the revolving adjustments she’s always making when she’s talking to Clarke.

She remembers Lincoln saying that they’d worked together previously, but this is…something else, she thinks. Something that bruises Clarke’s already pummeled ego in all matters Lexa. 

Because Lexa _never_ seems completely comfortable in her presence. 

Now that she’s seen the director in action for a while, Clarke recognizes that even within the walls of _Gonakru Nova_ — where Lexa is treated with uncontested reverence among her company — she is still just as taciturn as she was upon their first meeting. She’s quiet. Thoughtful. Still prone to blush on occasion. Her walls don’t fall often. 

She can glide between identities so swiftly it’s confounding to watch…supporter, observer, counselor, artist, warrior, mediator, but always, _always,_ above all — leader. She’s unfailingly here before Clarke arrives at the theater each day, and she never leaves with the rest of them at night. She seems to be _everywhere_ during rehearsals, constantly working, floating between techs and performers with equal skill to offer guidance on everything from the sturdiest supports for the set design to the most impact an actor can get from a line delivery. She untangles whatever dilemma lands in her path, and immediately moves on to the next one.

Her scorching intensity and nimble intellect twists and shimmers just as quickly, knocking Clarke back when Lexa allows it to rise. The flash in her eyes, the way she can pierce right through an argument or problem and say: _“Think about it this way…”_ And it distills the issue to its solvable parts, just like that. 

But throughout it all, her default position seems to remain somewhere in the cautious distance, shields up, eyes scanning the perimeter. 

There are some who get to tread closer, allowed inside her guard: Indra, Lincoln, Anya, Raven, to a lesser degree. Niylah and Octavia, at times. _(And now even Echo, for Christ’s sake…)_

But not Clarke. 

There’s only been one recognizable moment she’s spent with Lexa when the director didn’t seem as if she were calculating her imminent retreat the whole time, and it ended the instant her attention was called elsewhere. Hasn’t been seen since. 

So this seems to be more than a case of the director’s inherently wary personality and her potential _“stranger danger”_ feelings about a newcomer. 

Maybe Clarke’s misread the entire damn thing.

Maybe Lexa just doesn’t like her as much as she originally thought. 

She sighs and heads offstage, toward the dressing rooms. She’d promised Octavia she would stop by _Tondisi_ for a drink tonight, and if she hurries, she can probably catch up with the _Gonakru_ group before they get too many shots ahead. She’s too tired to have to play _bar mom_ for any of them. (Monty and Jasper are there, and even though she’s still getting to know them, something about those two well-meaning buffoons sparks her protective instincts. They need a lot of tending.) 

She’s rounding the corner to her dressing room when she hears voices coming from further down the hall. 

“ _Get out._ That _cannot_ be Clarke!” Raven cries.

Clarke freezes.

“Shh!” Anya fusses. “And give me back my phone, bitch.”

“Dude,” Raven says, drawing out the word. “You’ve totally rocked my world here. Give me a second, would ya? This is solid fucking gold. So she was, like, this total sci-fi _supastar_ back in the day, huh? I had no idea. Octavia just said they’d done a TV thing a while ago. She didn’t tell me it was this huge.”

There’s a pause, and then: “Holy shit. Whoever did the costume design for this show totally ripped their stuff off Madonna. Check out the bustier they stuck her in for this pic. That’s straight up _Blond Ambition-era Material Girl._ Yikes. Poor Clarke. That must have been chafing as _shit._ Girl wears it well, though.” Raven tops off her critique with a hefty, _rolled-R “Rrrrrrrrrrrawr…”_

“Eh. It was a stupid show,” Anya replies breezily. “They needed all the _T &A_ they could get to keep it afloat.”

“Please tell me that’s not why Lexa hired her for this gig,” Raven giggles. 

Anya joins in, and — from her hiding spot — a cold fury spikes through Clarke. _Those fucking…_ Part of her wants to run away, part of her wants to cry, and the most savage, primal part wants to charge around this corner and rip into Raven and Anya like a cyclone full of razor blades. 

“Who the fuck knows,” Anya says finally. “Maybe. I tried like hell to talk her out of it, but she brought her in, anyway.”

“Why?” Raven asks, and Clarke can tell by her distracted tone she’s back to trolling through pictures. 

But Clarke’s wholly interested to hear what Anya’s going to say next.

“Because…I don’t know. I just didn’t think it was right to cast some little sellout has-been when we could’ve picked someone in the company. Someone who’s actually put in the time here. Plus, I was afraid she’d be an absolute _train wreck_ to deal with. Do you know how many pictures I found of her _just_ falling out of limos? No lie. Google _Clarke Griffin limo dives_ some time. It’s _astounding,_ girl.” 

And that’s enough. Clarke is quaking with indignant anger by this point, but she somehow pushes her feet forward and marches down the hallway, anyway. _Don’t do it. You will lose this job if you lash back now. Just get past them, calm down, and deal with it later._

Raven and Anya flatten out their smirks as soon as she steps into view, trying to appear as if they weren’t just gossiping like a couple of high school wankers. 

Clarke passes by them and flashes a dangerously wide smile at the pair, making sure to look both of them square in the eye as she does. “Evening, you two…” she hums, struggling mightily to keep it sounding nonchalant. 

For a few disturbing seconds, she fantasizes about punching them both in the throat. The black thought throws her steps off-pace momentarily. 

_God, maybe Octavia was on to something. I can get dark fast._

The pair nods in unison, watching her move past. There’s a jittery tension rolling off them now; she can almost smell the _fight-or-flight_ pheromones in the air. 

“Have a good one, Griffin,” Raven croons from behind her, and Clarke can hear the slick, snickering undertones in there. 

_She thinks she’s gotten away with it._

It awakens her vengeful, monstrous temper all over again. And causes her to abandon her _high road_ intentions with a speed she might consider disgraceful, if not for all the red blazing in her head right now. 

Clarke’s already crossed the threshold of her dressing room, but she leans back into the hallway. 

“For the record, that limo thing was actually a joke.”

Raven jerks her chin towards her, eyes wide. 

“Yeah,” Clarke continues, fighting the shake in her voice. “Whole cast was in on it. Whoever got the most pics by season’s end got $5,000 to donate to the charity of their choice.”

Anya stares at the wall, jaw clenched. She won’t acknowledge her. 

It just makes Clarke _boil_ even more. “So…you know. Maybe we were a bunch of young, dumb, drunken sellouts…” And now there’s a definite tremor to her words. “…But at least we tried to not be complete assholes.”

She slams her dressing room door.

When she emerges a few minutes and several deep breaths later, the hallway is empty.

*****************

She never makes it out to _Tondisi_ that night. She goes home, and paints. 

Sometime around 3:00am, Octavia knocks to check on her, but Clarke lies convincingly enough O stumbles on to bed.

She paints until dawn creeps through the blinds. 

_A solitary figure on a hill, her heart gone supernova._

_Below her, a gathered crowd, hands clapped over their eyes to ward off the the white-hot glare of it._

******************

The next day is certainly not one of Clarke’s best. She’s sullen and silent unless she’s delivering a line or it’s absolutely necessary to engage anyone else, and then she mostly gives disinterested, monosyllabic grunts in response. 

When Octavia tries to tease her out of her crabby stupor, she ignores her antics until O finally gives up and leaves her alone with a disgruntled: _“Ugh. Fine. Whatever.”_

Anya has given Clarke a wide, quiet radius all day, and any time Raven wanders into her periphery, the designer will just grimace and change course, finding somewhere else to be _stat._

_At least I’m making them kind of antsy. Good._

She tries to shake off her foul mood as much as she’s able when actually working through scenes; she still has a job to do, even if she’d rather not right now. But she knows her efforts must fall flat and empty. All of her luster is simply… _gone._ She’s just kind of pantomiming to squeak by at this point. 

Lexa’s noticed. “Clarke, we’ve talked about the pacing in this scene before. Is there a reason you’re pulling back here today?” She’s _swindler-rolling_ her pencil in her right hand again, another one of her nervous tells Clarke’s picked up on.

“No. Nope. Just an oversight on my part. Sorry about that,” Clarke mumbles. Her throat suddenly aches with the threat of tears, triggering a surge of anxiety to course through her. _Stop that. You’re fine._ She refuses to look at the director.

Lexa pauses. Clarke can detect her gaze prickling against her, but she keeps her gritty eyes stubbornly planted on the script in her hands as the space stretches. 

“Very well then,” Lexa eventually responds. There’s an undercurrent of frostiness to her inflection now. _She’s annoyed._ “Let’s take ten and reset at the top of page 41, everybody.”

Clarke shuffles away immediately, intending to seclude herself in her dressing room to wait out her fractious and fitful emotional state. She keeps her chin down, calming herself with an internal refrain of _“you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay”_ between each step. 

A hand closes around her wrist. 

Startled, she balks and glances up…and finds herself plunging directly into a sea of concerned green.

Lexa hastily withdraws her hand, crossing her arms. “Are you alright?” she asks softly.

Still recovering from the shock of Lexa’s sudden proximity, Clarke rakes her fingers through her hair, willing a flimsy smile onto her face. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Her wrist tingles.

Lexa narrows her eyes. “You don’t seem fine.”

_Please…just let me be. Looking at you this close is making it all so much worse._

“I’m just not feeling great, that’s all,” Clarke shrugs, holding her script like armor between them. “I’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure? If you need to stop early, I can —“

“That’s not necessary.” 

She doesn’t mean to interrupt the director, nor the caustic bite of her response. At some level, she knows she’s just taking out her petulant hurt feelings on Lexa, which is neither smart _(She’s paying you, remember? Don’t act like a child…)_ nor fair. 

Lexa’s only crime is simply not being all that much into her, and it’s a shabby reason to hold a grudge or treat her poorly. From the sound of things, Anya must have filled the director’s head with plenty of trash-talking warnings before she ever made it back through the door here. 

No wonder she’s been so distant with her. 

But the longer she stands here, the more she’s steadily losing her ability to compartmentalize all of the dull gloom coiled in her belly. Her resolve is eroding, and she really can’t afford an audience right now. _This particular audience, for sure._ She just needs to go be by herself for a minute, hit the reset button. 

Lexa draws back, a crease of exasperation briefly suffusing between her eyes. 

“Okay,” she says, but there’s no anger in her tone. If anything she sounds…careful. Worried. “If you do, though…it’s alright. We can work around it if you aren’t up for this today.”

Clarke bows her head and nods more forcefully than she needs to. “I appreciate it. But I’m good,” she asserts, and can’t hide the desperation bleeding through in her voice. 

Without waiting for a reply, or even ending the conversation like a civil grown-up should, she makes her escape, crossing the stage in quick strides. 

She feels Lexa’s stare following her the whole way. 

******************** 

When rehearsal finally, blessedly ends, Lexa tells her she doesn’t have any notes for Clarke, and dismisses her with a curt: _“Get some rest, please.”_

If she were operating on a plane higher than the sluggish, subhuman way she feels right now, it would probably seem like a considerate gesture on the director’s part. 

Instead it’s like a kick in the gut.

 _As if it wasn’t enough for her to know all about your debauched glory days. Now she thinks you’re fragile and difficult, too. Really top shelf work, Griffin._

She’s holding back defeated tears again by the time she opens her dressing room door, finding Octavia on the other side, arms folded across her chest. 

She’s _pissed._

Also? She’s not alone. 

Raven is hunched on the sofa, her hands clenching and unclenching nervously. She slowly raises her eyes to Clarke, and gives a tight-lipped nod.

_Shit._

“Get your stuff,” Octavia commands lowly, her irate stare leveled on Clarke. “You’re coming with us.”

Clarke is already shaking her head before Octavia’s finished. “No, I’m exhausted, O. I just want to go home…”

She tries to slide past Octavia to grab her things, but O blocks her.

“Nope. Unacceptable. We’ve got a problem, and we’re going to fix it right now,” Octavia insists. “Because you — “ she points at Clarke, “should have told me, and she —“ she points at Raven, who directs a queasy scowl at the floor. “Has some things to answer for. So get your stuff.” 

“O, don’t make me hurt you,” Clarke rumbles, fed up and desperate to be out of this room, which is getting smaller by the second.

Octavia just smirks at her like: _Really?_

Raven, astonishingly silent throughout all of this, darts her eyes between them both, hands folded between her knees.

Clarke groans, her head drooping. She’s just _so damn tired._ “Jesus, _fiiiine._ What the fuck ever.” She pushes into Octavia, who drops her shoulder back and allows her to pass. Clarke angrily slams her things into her bag before spinning back around to face them, motioning to the door with a vicious sweep of her arm. “Well? Let’s go.”

Octavia glares at both of them as she turns toward the door, her jaw flexing. 

Raven scrambles to get out of the room ahead of her, keeping Octavia safely sandwiched between them. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” Clarke grumps as she resentfully trudges into procession.

“To the bar,” Octavia states flatly. “Where all the shittiest problems begin and end. Raven’s buying.”

Raven doesn’t argue.

*************************

“Alright, one _Basil Hayden’s_ on the rocks, a _Stella_ pint for Octavia, who’s looking fabulous tonight, might I add…” Raven narrates as she carefully places drinks on their table, “…and a Moscow Mule for me that’s gonna burn like my eternal soul because Nyko’s out of _Grey Goose_ again.” She settles into her chair and pouts at the copper mug in front of her.

Other than trading brusque drink orders when they walked in, it’s the first time any of them have spoken since leaving the theater.

Raven flicks a glance around the table.

Octavia takes a long drink of her beer. 

Clarke stares down into her glass.

“So, listen…” Raven haltingly begins, her face scrunched.

Octavia thrusts up her hand, cutting her off. “Uh-uh. Not yet. You’re listening to me first.” She looks between them. “Both of you.”

Clarke lifts her weary eyes from her drink.

“You two know enough about where I came from to get that I had a pretty fucking _unsunny_ time of things growing up. And it’s whatever, because who fucking _didn’t_ anymore, you know? But going through that whole shitstorm planted a firm goddamn intolerance in me for putting up with any kind of discord in my life now.”

She’s been boring a hole into the table with her stare as she tells them this, but she suddenly whirls on Raven. “Especially when it’s over some catty fucking bullshit like what you pulled on my Clarke here, Reyes.”

Raven drops her head and frowns. “I know, dude.” 

“And you,” she turns to Clarke. “Are just playing to your strengths, sister. Because you’ll gripe about our spotty damn wi-fi and the guy at the bodega who overcharges you for your fancy fucking matcha tea until I want to smother you with a pillow, but you won’t ever tell me when something’s really wrong unless I drag it out of you.”

Clarke shoots forward in her seat, preparing to fire back. “Look, it’s because —“

“—But I also know you didn’t tell me about it because it’s work and it’s Raven and she’s my friend and it’s all goddamn complicated. You didn’t want it to blow up into this huge fucking deal,” Octavia acquiesces, leaning back in her chair and giving Clarke a lazy half-grin that says: _“Prove me wrong, Griffin.”_

And she can’t. Because O has _always_ had her fucking number when it really matters.

Octavia lets them rest with this for a moment while she takes a swallow of her drink. “So, here’s the deal. I don’t give myself to many people. You’ve got to be something goddamn remarkable for me to bring you into my messed-up circle, and you two freaks are solidly fucking in, you know? I’m not letting either of you go over some petty thing like this. So we’ve got to work this out. How are we going to do that?” She opens her hands to them, palms up.

 _Ladies and gentleman, Octavia Blake. See a problem, punch it in the teeth,_ Clarke thinks. 

Raven jumps in first. She looks so miserable and guilty that she actually seems relieved to get a chance to finally speak. She snaps her eyes to Clarke. “This whole thing was super shitty, Griffin, and I’m sorry.”

She looks at Raven. She still feels her anger, but it’s flickered down to a low simmer at this point, especially after Octavia’s straightforward summary. _She has a point. This is all kind of petty._

And really, she’s sort of impressed by how unflinchingly direct Raven is being about all of this, too. Even if all Clarke knows about the designer is that she’s regularly in need of a fire extinguisher and can be a mean fucking gossip on occasion, the fact that Octavia is willing to put herself through this so they will make peace means there’s definitely something worthwhile about Raven to know. 

She gives in, nodding once. “Thanks, Raven.” 

Raven takes in an easier breath. “Seriously, though. Like, I’m totally not the person to judge anyone about what they did or might have done once upon a time, dude. Ain’t no bitch alive who can wig snatch me, because I’ll just put it out there myself. I have _lived._ I’ve _done_ shit. So fucking what, right?”

Clarke smirks at her, and Raven smiles. Octavia stretches a bit, shaking her head, a small, pleased grin forming across her features as she watches them.

The mood around the table slowly eases up. 

Raven loosens the reins on her personality a little more. “Besides, I think all that wild child _Lohan_ shit you’ve got in your way back is kind of fucking awesome.”

At that, Clarke laughs and leans back, cradling her drink glass against her chest. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah,” Raven assures her, a teasing grin curling over her mouth. “You gotta own that, girl. You were, like, this total nerdgasm fire starter _and_ you went all feral, eccentric club kid, too. That’s hot as _fuck._ ”

Clarke tries to smile back, but she’s squirming a bit at the direction this is heading. She’s worked so hard to distance herself from all that, to block it out. Having a virtual stranger lay it out so plainly in front of her makes her kind of uncomfortable, even if Raven’s trying to be supportive.

Raven seems to pick up on the shift. Her grin fades, her face settling into a more serious expression. “All I mean is…don’t let anyone shame you. Especially not me. Because, like…even if it wasn’t, you know, _highbrow_ or whatever, being a performer takes guts of fucking steel, dude. You put yourself out there, anyway, and that’s all kinds of brave. All that other noise? You liked to party. Big fucking deal. Who _doesn’t_ when they’re 22? So what if you fell down. You learned from it. You came out of it. You’re handling things exactly like you want now, doing what you want to do, and that’s monumental as _shit,_ girl. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

Clarke squints her eyes at Raven, swallowing against the sudden lump that’s formed in her throat. _Really starting to get why Octavia likes her now._

This time, her smile comes much more easily. “Thank you.”

Raven winks at her, then pushes back from the table. “Yeah, alright, so…less feelings…”

Octavia raises her glass. “ _God, yes._ No more feelings.”

“…More drinks,” Raven finishes. “Clarke, you want the same thing next round?” 

She’s already moving toward the bar, and Clarke nods without even quite realizing what she's agreeing to; she's dazed and still sifting through her first whiplash-inducing _Raven_ experience. 

Octavia studies her. “You okay?” she asks quietly.

Without warning, Clarke just hugs her. 

“Aw, come on, Griffin,” Octavia growls, pushing against Clarke’s embrace and giggling.

“Take it, O. Take my love, damn it.” Clarke says, squeezing harder.

Octavia squeezes back _juuuuuust_ slightly before muttering: “Alright, let me go, you giant fucking mess.”

Clarke smacks a kiss right into the middle of O’s forehead, then releases her. “Love you.”

Octavia rubs her forehead and ducks her head. “Love you back, Griff,” she mumbles. 

******************

Raven keeps them there for four more rounds before Clarke reaches her absolute collapse point and has to stagger home.

Around midnight, she tells them she has a present for Clarke, and disappears into the crowd so long Clarke begins to suspect Raven’s twisted idea of a _present_ might actually turn out to be that she’s ditched them with the bar tab, after all. (It just seems like something she’d find _hilarious._ ) 

But when she finally returns, she’s dragging a very pinch-faced and pale Anya with her.

Raven pushes her right up to their table. “Okay. Say it,” she demands, folding her arms and jutting her chin at Anya.

Anya’s jaw is clamped so tightly Clarke can practically _hear_ her teeth screaming for mercy. 

After a tense moment of the stage manager just hovering there, clearly devising the most painful ways to murder all of them in their beds later, she eventually spits out: _“Sorry, Griffin.”_

Clarke’s so thunderstruck _(and frightened, lesbihonest, because holy hell she's never seen Anya this dialed up)_ she can only muster a raspy: _“S’alright.”_

Anya leaves without another word. 

*******************

Clarke learns three important lessons that night about what it means to get tossed into a friendship with Raven Reyes:

One — Raven can _drink._

She downed two drinks to Clarke’s one for their last couple rounds and was still able to explain — _in precise, scientific detail_ — her theories about parallel universes. She was spouting phrases like: _“possible particle configurations repeating infinitely many times over”_ while Clarke just blinked at her in dropped-jaw astonishment.

Two — Raven is _so much smarter_ than Clarke.

She actually studied, of all things, _astrophysics_ at Columbia because _“space is sexy and fucking terrifying all at once”_ but got hooked into lighting design when she started dating a theater tech her third year. He used to let her hang backstage, where Raven accidentally found something that combined gadgetry, artistry, and a chance to get paid to occasionally blow things up. (Even if it was only pretend.) She was _sold._ That’s how she met Lincoln, who introduced her to Lexa.

Three — Raven will take _no one’s shit, ever._

When a swelled-up _dude bro_ kept cruising by their table to pester Clarke for her number, Raven chased him off by saying: _“I’ve got a few really shady Dominican cousins down the block who will gladly snip off your shriveled balls and nail them to your mama’s front door if you don’t leave us alone.”_

Clarke’s still not sure if she was serious or not.


	5. Hiding My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Sorry for the delay in getting this update out. Had a little bit of life spring up and knock me around some, and then this chapter turned into one tough mother to crack. 
> 
> It hit something like 16K words before I could wrestle it back to the ground, so I had to figure out some place to stop the madness early and get some words posted, already. 
> 
> I'm about halfway through the next one, so hopefully I can get an update out sooner next time. (We've got some shiiiiiit going down, ya'll...)
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me and -- for those of you just joining us -- giving this a look in the first place. You all don't even know how much you make me smile, so...thank you. May your week ahead be a good one, friends...
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Brandi Carlile.
> 
> **(One quick music aside: The album referenced at the end of this chapter is "White Lighter" by Typhoon. It’s a bloody fantastic headphone album, in case anyone's interested...)**

************************

“Good morning, all,” Indra says, sliding into her spot at the table. She slaps down a legal pad and the largest to-go cup of coffee Clarke’s ever seen. 

_(There must be some secret menu that offers a size bigger than ‘Trenta’. Gotta get Indra to give up the code word. It’s Indra, though. She doesn’t need a goddamn code word. All she probably has to do is glare at the baristas for a minute and do that flare-y nostril thing she does so well. I know if she pointed that scary ass stare at me long enough, I’d just shout: “yes, ma’am!”, fill up what is obviously a receptacle designed to sustain sea life with French Roast and then hand over all the money in the register, too.)_

“Clarke?”

“Hmm?” Clarke looks over at Indra, who is… _yup._ Staring at her. _Shit._

“You’re still out of rehearsal the evening of the 8th, yes?” Indra sighs, obviously irritated at having to repeat herself.

“Oh…yeah. Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Indra’s eyebrow lifts.

Clarke shrinks in her chair. “Sorry.”

Indra goes back to writing with a shake of her head. “Okay, so…on the topic of upcoming events…” she says, looking back up at everyone seated around the table. “We open exactly five weeks from today, everybody.”

“Hell yeah, we do!” Octavia hoots. 

A series of yips and cheers ping-pongs around the table, and Lincoln hi-fives Miller. 

Murphy snorts and rolls his eyes at them, leaning away from their moment of _“yeah, bra”_ like he might actually catch something.

Indra waits them out. “We will be having our customary opening night reception after, and I need to get a rough head count sent over to the caterers today, so let’s talk guest numbers. Doesn’t have to be exact. We can update as we get closer, but…” She turns to Octavia, pointing at her with her pen. “Blake, how many people are you bringing opening night?”

Octavia shrugs. “Put me down for a plus one for now.”

“Oh, is this _blue man bun?_ Or is there some other tragic suitor on your line?” Lincoln teases.

Octavia gives him a sarcastic peal of laughter, feigning wiping tears from her eyes as she exhales in a long, downward-sailing _“aaaaaaah”_ that sounds a bit like an incoming missile. “Look who has jokes this morning…” Her face morphs into a killer lip curl/eye roll combo. “He’s tragic, yes,” she agrees, completely deadpan now. “But it’s for my dumb brother.”

Clarke brightens. “Bell’s coming into town?”

“Maybe,” Octavia says, hunching her shoulders and glancing around the table quickly. She always fidgets when anyone wades too far into personal waters. _(Especially about her family.)_ “He’s going to see if he can get someone to cover his classes that weekend so he can catch the train up here,” she quietly tells Clarke.

“Your brother’s a teacher?” Lincoln asks, his chin propped in his hand. He looks so _precious_ right now, fascinated to learn something new about Octavia.

 _Oh, Lincoln. You’ve got it so bad._ Clarke just wants to smoosh the stuffing out of that hulking, beautiful man.

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Monroe calls from her spot at the end of the table.

Lexa walks out from the backstage shop area carrying a coil of cable line, her notebook tucked underneath her arm. Clarke’s eyes immediately follow her.

“I didn’t, either,” Niylah laughs. “Octavia…the girl with all the secrets.” 

Lexa places the spool of cable down and starts jotting down notes, pausing every few seconds to raise her eyes to the ceiling while she figures calculations in her head, muttering to herself. It appears as though she’s trying to work out some kind of technical spec. 

“Jury’s still out on those paternity results, but…yeah,” Octavia finally answers, picking at the buttons of the faded flannel she’s wearing. “I claim him from time to time.” She looks at Lincoln. “He teaches British Lit at a university outside Boston.”

“Zow. That professor vibe _does_ it for me, dude. He single? Taken? Gay? Bi? Totally fluid and not into labels like a certain bad bitch you love and adore?” Raven lobs at Octavia as she meanders over to stand beside the table, a mangled stage light in her hands.

“Sweet Jesus, Reyes. Zip it up, would you? Brothers are firmly in the _forbidden zone._ You know this.”

Raven thunks the light assembly down on the table next to Clarke and pulls a screwdriver out of her pocket, continuing to tinker with the abused contraption as she talks. “Yeah, but my willingness to abide by the _Blake Code of Conduct_ gets kind of murky if he’s well-read, has a steady job, and hot, though. Is he hot?”

“No. He’s hideous and smells like a wet warthog most of the time. Stay away from him,” Octavia grumbles.

Raven turns to Clarke. “Is he hot?”

Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s just…Bell. He’s like my brother, too. I can’t possibly answer that for you.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “You all are no help. None.” She picks up the stage light and strolls away again, leaving an assortment of screws and fuses on the table.

Clarke pokes at them. “She’ll probably need those.”

“Trust me,” Indra mumbles as she finishes her note taking. “She won’t even realize they’re gone.” 

Clarke glances to Octavia. “Is this why things keep exploding around here?”

On the other side of the table, a soft chuff of laughter rises up at that. It’s so quiet she almost misses it entirely.

Clarke shifts to locate the source and spies Lexa, who has stealthily floated closer to them. She’s still running through figures (because she never stops working, _ever_ ) and not looking over, but she’s _totally_ paying attention, that _sneak._ Clarke smirks, then catches Echo peering at her from across the table. 

She promptly slouches down and hides her smirk behind her hand.

“Okay,” Indra resumes. “Harper? How many?”

“I guess two?” Harper replies. She droops in her chair a bit. “I think my mom wants to bring her stupid boyfriend. I don’t know why, though. He’ll probably just ditch off to watch football on his phone in the bathroom, anyway.” She ends on a long-suffering sigh.

“Not a theater fan?” Miller needles.

“Nah, he’s from Ohio. I think the only things he likes are the Buckeyes and chili.”

“And bangin’ your mom,” Murphy sneers.

Harper makes a disgusted face and punches Murphy in the arm.

“What the hell is a Buckeye?” Octavia asks.

“Hey, Miller, isn't that the thing you did with that guy from _The Rosemont_ the other night?” Murphy continues, seemingly not the least bit bothered when Harper punches him again. 

Miller blasts him with a severely unamused eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know, bitch.”

“Alright, alright,” Indra breaks in. “Echo?”

Echo is furiously tapping away on her phone now, which causes Indra’s expression to ice over the second she notices. “Umm…” She holds out the _‘mmmm’_ as she finishes typing.

Indra clears her throat. 

Echo raises her eyes, belatedly realizing that she’s pushed one of Indra’s buttons and therefore tempted certain, excruciating pain at the assistant director’s hand. She drops her phone in her lap at once. “I believe three for now,” she states, her voice suddenly taking on a _“won’t happen again, officer”_ tone Clarke is all too acquainted with. 

Then an afterthought hits Echo, and she wiggles her hand at the legal pad. “That may change if Lexa…” She shoots a glance over at the director. 

Lexa doesn’t respond or acknowledge Echo in any fashion, even though Clarke can tell she’s still wholly cued in to what’s happening at the table. Her pen has stopped moving.

 _Hmm. Interesting._ She feels a prickle of suspicion roll up and sit down inside her brain. 

“Well, that may change.” Echo finishes with dramatic flourish of her arms, like she’s tossing something away.

Indra just stares at her. “So three, then.” She writes it down. “Clarke?”

Clarke drags her focus away from the strange non-exchange between Echo and Lexa and turns to Indra. “You know…” She files through her thought banks momentarily, feeling her cheeks begin to burn when she can’t come up with _anyone_ she might want to invite. She shrugs and drops her eyes, words rushing together when she says: “Actually, I don’t think I’ll need an extra.”

“What?” Niylah exclaims. “But it’s _opening night._ Isn’t there someone you’d like to bring?”

Clarke flounders when she looks over at Niylah, trying hard to not feel everyone’s stares on her now. “I mean…I don’t know.”

Lincoln steps in, encouraging as ever, because he’s _just that guy._ “The food is always really good, and there’s an open bar,” he offers from across the table.

“What about your parents?” Echo suggests, her eyes back on the phone in her lap.

Clarke cringes.

Octavia goes completely still.

“Parents always adore opening night things,” Echo breezes on, failing to notice their reactions. She finishes her text and blinks up at Clarke.

“Not really an option,” Clarke grits out. She rakes a hand through her hair in an attempt to disguise the wobbly frown pulling at her mouth.

“No?” Echo pauses. Then something dawns on her. “Oh, right. I forget you’re a Cali girl. Your parents must still be there.”

Octavia makes a sound between a growl and a cough.

“My mom still lives there, yeah,” Clarke admits quietly, cutting her eyes over Echo’s shoulder. 

Because behind Echo, Raven has wandered back over to Lexa. She holds up what looks like a charred circuit board of some sort, and Lexa visibly sags when she sees it. Raven laughs and squeezes her shoulder.

“Relax, boss,” she hears Raven say. “I can build another one by tomorrow. No problem.”

Lexa rallies a little, smiling gratefully at the designer. She says something too low to decipher that causes Raven to narrow her eyes at her and stick out her tongue before heading toward the table. 

Lexa goes back to her notebook.

“And she can’t make the trip?” Echo presses, pulling Clarke’s concentration back to the actress.

Clarke knits her brows, her patience with Echo’s line of questioning growing more threadbare. “We don’t really…” She stops herself. _Nope. Don’t open that door._ “She’s way too busy. She’s a surgeon. I swear she hasn’t taken a vacation since I was, like, 12.”

Indra’s face sets into a look that says — unmistakably — _“I do not have time for this”_ , and she calls out to Murphy instead, dismissing their conversation to keep her list making chore going.

Echo scoots closer. She lowers her voice to a whisper so as to not interrupt Indra. “That’s really admirable, though. A surgeon, huh? That’s a worthy profession.”

Clarke smiles, but there’s nothing behind it. “Yeah. I suppose it is,” she whispers back.

“What are you all whispering about?” Raven breaks in at full voice, leaning over Echo so closely that the actress nearly topples her chair on its side when she jolts.

Indra fires a scowl at them over her shoulder, and they all shrivel down at once. Save for Raven, who just beams at the assistant director, throwing her a cheerful, innocent wave. 

The tendons in Indra’s neck strain as she continues to glare at Raven, and (to her extreme credit, because it only rises up for a moment) there’s some kind of dark and rich fantasy playing out behind her eyes that must end in horrible agony for Raven, judging from the grim satisfaction that briefly passes over her face. She stuffs it down, though, and eventually goes back to speaking with Murphy.

Thankful for the diversion, Clarke slowly turns to Raven and gives a glib shrug. She says: _“Nothing important”_ at the same time Octavia burrs, volume turned low: “They’re talking about moms, Raven. Care to join in?”

Clarke sighs, flinging a glare at Octavia. O doesn’t notice.

Though she’s quieter about it now, Raven’s response is as instant and harsh as a right hook. “Hard pass on that.”

Off Clarke’s uneasy glance, Raven explains: “All my mom stories get ugly fast.”

“Same here,” Echo confides.

Three sets of surprised eyes swivel toward her.

Echo traces an uneven pattern on the table with her hand, an anxious, hesitant quality to the motion. She won’t look at them. Clarke can see Echo is kind of dying to disclose more, needs to let this out, but she’s too afraid to drop her defenses.

Clarke recognizes those signals. She’s spent way too many years in solitary, unheard and unseen. She spots them right away. 

It thaws something inside her. She skitters a glance over Echo’s shoulder to Lexa. She’s not sure if the director is still eavesdropping or not, but she decides to take the risk and stumble in, anyway. “I haven’t spoken to my mom in over two years.”

Echo raises up and meets her gaze.

Behind her, Lexa pauses over whatever figures she’s sketching out.

_Well, crap._

They’re all looking at her. (Except Lexa, who has tightened her focus on the page in front of her so diligently Clarke _really_ knows she’s faking it now.)

 _Too late to walk this back. Now you’re trapped._

She takes a breath. Forges on. “I couldn’t even make myself call her when I moved to New York,” Clarke adds softly. “I texted her, though. And she’s horrible at texting, too, so I think that probably just pissed her off even more…” She stops a moment, fiddling with the hem of her cardigan. “So…yeah. I think the last words I got from her were: _‘You’re just running away from all your protoblems, Clare’.”_

Raven barks out a giggle. “Well played, Clare. Better than running toward them, I guess.”

Clarke lowers her chin and manages a short snuffle-laugh, throwing out her hands in front of her as if to say: _“Right?!”_ Then she peeks under her lashes at Lexa.

The director’s head is turned away from them now. She’s peering toward the back of stage instead, tapping her pen against her thigh. Clarke wants so badly to get a glimpse of her face, try to read what she’s thinking. 

A small, obliged smile spreads across Echo’s face as she leans forward. She puts her elbows on the table, briefly seeking out Clarke’s eyes before she drops hers again. “My mother was…” She lifts her stare long enough to see if Indra’s still engaged with the group at the other end of the table. 

Clarke catches the _was_ immediately. _So Echo’s got some things that hurt in her past, too._

Echo scoots forward some more. “Well, she had a lot of issues. Bipolar. Completely obsessed with her looks. And a coke habit, too, which, you know, always makes unstable people just that much more pleasant to be around.” She pauses, kneads her hands. “She could be quite…cruel at times.” 

Curiously, it’s Octavia who speaks first. “That’s a pretty shitty trifecta to get stuck with.”

Clarke shares a look with O. She remembers the last time Octavia saw her mother. The stricken, washed-out husk it made of her for weeks after. 

Bellamy had begged her to go after their mom left a rambling, panicked voicemail for him, and when Octavia finally tracked her mom down, she found her half-dead on the floor of a filthy trailer in Tampa, a needle still dangling from her arm.

She’s been in prison since last June. 

Every time Octavia’s phone rings, and that staticky _“This call is from an inmate at…”_ pre-recorded message plays, O just hangs up. 

She won’t talk about it whenever Clarke tries. But when one of those calls comes through, and she sees how haunted and fed-up Octavia looks afterward, Clarke sometimes doubts if O will ever be willing to tackle that topic again. 

Echo interlocks her fingers, stretching her arms over her head. The gloomy, nervous interlude appears to be dissipating. “It was what it was, I suppose,” she sighs. “Lots of people have had it worse. It took me a long time to shake off the effects, but I think it’s made me a little wiser.” She locks eyes with Octavia and Clarke. “Maybe. I hope so, at least.” She gives them a meaningful, lopsided grin.

 _She’s trying to be better._

_And really, a lot of people don’t even bother to do that much,_ Clarke thinks. _But at least she’s trying. That’s something._

Octavia seems to come to the same conclusion, because she actually _smiles_ at Echo. 

(As smiles go, it’s a puny thing, but it’s still _so fucking astonishing.)_

Then Indra suddenly stands up, and Clarke tunes back in to hear her say: “…So let’s take ten, and we’ll set up for the end of Act I. We’ll be starting on page 67, with Lincoln’s dialogue.”

The group squeaks and yawns to its collective feet in a murmur of rustling pages and _not-quite-awake-yet_ babbling. 

Except Raven, who’s still leaning against the table, wearing a perplexed frown.

“Everything okay, Raven?” Clarke asks.

Raven glances up at her, her wheels still spinning. “Yeah, dude. I’m just…” She skims her eyes around the room, pausing over a few faces. She looks back at Clarke. “Like, I think everybody here has some kind of grim fucking backstory.”

Lincoln, Niylah, Octavia, and Murphy are still standing close enough that they overhear what she’s said, and turn to her. 

She goes on. “I’ve just never really thought about it until now, but it’s like, we’re all pretty young, you know, and I don’t think there’s one of us who even has two parents around anymore, am I right?” 

The rest of them either nod or shrug, so she turns to Clarke. “What about you? We’ve covered your mom. Pop?”

Clarke swallows. She absently drums her fingers on the script still laying on the table in front of her and shakes her head. “No, he’s gone.” She can’t look away from the script once she’s said those words out loud. 

“Wait, I’m pretty sure Monty has two moms,” Murphy offers, pointing finger guns at Raven. (Because he’s just _that_ guy.)

Raven’s sour expression perks up.

“Yeah, nah, they got divorced,” Octavia shoots him down. “Brenda moved to New Zealand or some shit like that.”

Niylah gasps. “Brenda and Hannah split up? No! I loved them.”

Raven groans and flings her arms out, defeated. “Well, fuck me. So there’s no one. None of us.”

Clarke finally raises her eyes and sees Lexa and Indra still in conversation just behind them. She drops her voice down to the slimmest whisper. “What about Lexa?”

And it’s as if she’s just casually asked them if they would like to help her assassinate _Ellen._

Everyone stiffens at once and stares at her, appalled.

Octavia clears her throat, shaking her head. “No, she’s…” She checks the rest of the group, who are either shifting in prickly silence or just avoiding the clumsy scene altogether, suddenly finding something much more interesting to look at. “Just…no.” Octavia finally stammers. She gives Clarke a loaded look that transmits — in no uncertain terms — _We’ll talk later._

Clarke wilts, her face burning. _O-kay… What the hell?_

“I can't believe we’re all so wrecked,” Raven mumbles, sounding completely depressed about this. “Nothing but a bunch of sad, broken-ass people…” 

“Girl, you’re working in a fucking theater, okay?” Octavia slings back. “This is like _church_ for broken-ass people. Why the fuck else do you think any of us ever got into this in the first place?”

Raven wrinkles her nose at her, a slow smirk forming. “I just thought it was because you’re all insufferable narcissists, you damaged ho.”

Octavia pivots on her heel, leaving them with a middle finger to the sky for Raven.

Raven just laughs. “Your friend is kind of salty, Clarke,” she says, gripping Clarke’s arm and shaking it lightly.

“Tell me about it.”

Smirk still firmly in place, Raven releases her and ambles away again, but she stops by Indra and Lexa long enough to carefully graze her hand across Indra’s shoulder. It looks like a sort of peace offering for testing her patience earlier. 

Indra seems to accept, giving her a slight nod as she passes. (Clarke’s pretty sure she might have actually _winked_ at Raven, too.) 

_Huh. Will wonders never cease._

Lincoln holds up his script. “Shall we, pretty lady?”

Clarke snorts. “I don’t know what rumors you’ve heard, but I am no lady, Lincoln. That I can assure you.” 

With a grin, Lincoln moves away from the table.

“Thanks for calling me pretty, though…” she calls out to his retreating back, gathering her things to follow him. 

And then suddenly Niylah is standing right beside her, her hand on Clarke’s forearm. 

Clarke freezes, arching her eyebrows at Niylah. _She smells like oranges today._ The stray observation somehow pierces through all the warning bells sounding in Clarke’s brain at the costumer’s abrupt nearness. 

Niylah draws her hand back, but doesn’t widen the distance between them. She smiles. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you…” she begins, her voice quiet and light. “About opening night, I mean. If you don’t end up having anyone at the reception, I’d be happy to keep you company.” 

_Oh._

Niylah tilts her head, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that Clarke finally clues in to.

_Ohhhhh…_

_Well._

Clarke swallows and leans back a bit, feeling altogether muddled and off-balance now. She forces what she hopes resembles a smile. “Yeah, um…sure. I’ll…I’ll let you know. Thanks, Niylah.”

Niylah nods, easy smile unscathed by Clarke’s tepid response. She slides away, swinging her arms out to the side in leisurely, sloping _“rave girl”_ arcs while she walks, a cacophony of clacking bead bracelets fading behind her as she crosses offstage. 

Clarke watches her go, adjusting to this new development. 

Even though she’s not quite sure how to take it yet, she still can’t help but feel a tiny bit flattered. It knocks loose an amused ripple of _“well, ain’t you something, Griffin”_ inside her, and she snorts softly at herself. 

_God, but your game really is rusty though. That was awful. “…Um, sure.” Really?_

When she lifts her eyes, they of course track right over to where Lexa is still standing, going over notes with Indra. 

She’s talking to the assistant director, but she’s staring right at Clarke. 

And Clarke’s belly immediately performs that familiar low and slow _flip_ that happens every time she finds those gorgeous eyes pointed in her direction. 

As soon as their gazes connect, though, Lexa shifts and cuts back to Indra, her jaw set at a hard, tetchy angle.

 _Whatever they’re talking about, Lexa doesn’t look very pleased about it,_ Clarke thinks.

Then Lexa goes and does that adorable thing where she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear and gets all fumbly and soft for a second. The one that actually makes Clarke physically _ache_ to wrap her arms around her. 

The one that always, _always_ slaps her right back into herself, because… _you fucking can’t, Clarke._

Her little boost over Niylah’s flirty invitation sputters and fades smooth out.

With a heavy sigh, Clarke picks up her script, heading off to join Lincoln.

****************** 

“The Empress has asked you a question, Devin,” Lincoln rumbles, clapping one of his enormous hands along Clarke’s collarbone and digging in.

Clarke screws up her face in defiance. “Forgive me, but I failed to hear much of a question in that.”

Lincoln’s eyes flash.

From the side of the stage, Lexa raises her hand. “Okay, let’s hold here.” She’s already scribbling notes.

Lincoln releases Clarke, rubbing her shoulder gently. “That wasn’t too rough, was it?” he whispers.

Clarke shakes her head. “You’re good. I’m tougher than I look.” 

“No doubt.” He winks at her.

“After lunch, we’ll pick up right here, beginning at _‘The Empress has asked you…’,_ alright?” Lexa instructs in a distracted tone as she finishes her writing. She looks up at them as if she’s surprised to find them all still here, then gives a tentative smile. “Thank you, everyone.”

There’s enough _“permission granted”_ to it that the group on stage finally begins to slowly split off for their lunch break.

“Hang on, before you all scatter,” Anya announces, plodding onstage like she’s so over all of this already. She holds up a stack of envelopes. “I have checks.”

Monty and Jasper descend from where they’ve been hanging lights toward the back of the stage. 

“Oooo, payday!” Jasper claps, hurrying over to Anya with his hands out. “Gimme, gimme, gimme…” 

Anya’s glare stops him cold. Jasper takes a healthy step backwards.

“I didn’t know we got paid today,” Clarke tells Octavia.

Indra overhears, gives her a sharp look. “The pay schedule was in your contract, Clarke.”

“Oh…right. Of course,” Clarke nods.

Octavia leans closer to Clarke. “You haven’t even looked at that contract yet, have you?”

“I will. I mean…it’s…well, I meant to. I will, though.”

Octavia smirks at her.

“Niylah,” Anya says, dispensing a check dispassionately. “Monroe. Jasper…” (And this one actually gets _thrown_ at the lighting tech.) 

Lexa motions to Indra and points toward backstage, mouthing something Clarke can’t catch, and — at Indra’s nod — Lexa disappears offstage.

“Murphy…Miller…”

At the back of the theater, one of the doors leading from the lobby swings open, drawing Clarke’s eye. 

A woman sashays in, dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and moving with so much _“power bitch in the house now”_ confidence Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if she strolled right up to them and proclaimed she was here to take over the joint. Her skintight dress is the shade of an open vein.

Anya turns, the corner of her mouth twitching up a fraction when she spots the woman. 

She flips back around. “Monty…” Anya thrusts the check into the air in front of her without looking up from her clipboard and shakes it in irritation. It seems her patience level with all of this has suddenly drained down to less than _none, so hurry up and come get your money, you rotten bastards._

“Who’s that?” Clarke whispers to Octavia, inclining her head toward the guest now lingering in the aisle, looking around the theater. Even from this distance, Clarke can see the unimpressed sniff the woman gives as she drags a manicured fingertip across the back of one of the audience seats.

Octavia swallows a grin and turns her back to the seats. “That’s Alie,” she whispers. “Anya’s girlfriend.”

Clarke’s eyes bug in shock. “Shut. Up.”

“I know, sister. Trust me,” Octavia snickers, ducking her head and nodding. 

Clarke shoots a glance at Alie once more, suddenly unable to trust the very fabric of her own reality as she unpacks this bombshell. _Anya has a bloody girlfriend?_ (She always sort of assumed there was some secret broom closet around here that Anya returned to each night to plug herself in and work on perfecting her resting bitch face until rehearsal started again.) 

“It fucking defies explanation, really,” Octavia adds under her breath as she slowly twirls back around. 

“And…Lincoln…” Anya stops, frowning. She’s out of envelopes. “I’m missing some.” She looks down at her empty hands as if she can’t quite believe this has happened. “Lexa must have them,” she mumbles, glancing around in search of the director.

“She had to make a call,” Indra says with a shrug.

Anya deflates. “Right.” She checks over her shoulder.

Alie just folds her arms and leans her weight on her hip, giving the stage manager a withering stare.

 _Holy hell, that look is potent enough to strip paint,_ Clarke thinks, shuddering a bit inside.

Anya reels on them, looking between Clarke and Octavia with something that — on a normal human being — would almost qualify as desperation. “Blake. Can you grab the rest of those from Lexa for me? She should be in her office.”

Octavia lets her twist for a moment. _(She savors any chance she gets to torment someone, really. It’s like a sport for O.)_

Finally, Octavia relents, tongue firmly wedged in her cheek. “Sure thing, Anya.” She nods toward the back of the theater. “Enjoy your lunch, girl.”

Anya’s face falls even more _(somehow_ ) at Octavia’s veiled jibe before she tosses a flat _“thanks”_ over her shoulder and jumps down from the stage, jogging down the aisle toward Alie.

Clarke and Octavia simply watch, mesmerized. 

Anya scrunches her shoulders, jabbing a thumb behind her as she apologizes for making her girlfriend _(Jesus, still can’t quite get over that…)_ wait. It’s a very _“sorry, babe…work stuff”_ kind of move. 

In response, Alie just turns and saunters toward the exit as Anya stumbles along behind her like a _cowering fucking handmaiden, and it’s glorious._

“It’s like Anya gets smaller the closer she gets to her…” Clarke murmurs, stupefied. “Like she’s getting dragged in by some kind of gravitational vortex or something…”

“Yeah,” Octavia agrees. “It’s like…you know what? I can’t even…” She shakes her head and looks over at Clarke. “Come on, nerd. Let’s go get our scratch and get out of here. I’m fucking starving.” 

***************

Octavia leads them through a few narrow, twisting corridors within the business office, to an area Clarke’s never visited before. They pass a series of open doors on the way, and she peers inside each one curiously.

Indra’s office is, of course, sparsely decorated and _immaculate._ File folders and notebooks neatly stacked, rows of play scripts and binders lining the bookshelves, undoubtedly arranged down to the exact, carefully-alphabetized letter. Clarke spies a framed picture on her desk: Indra with her arm around a tall, spindly-legged girl in a martial arts uniform, Indra’s smile wide and proud. _(Never seen that particular attitude on Indra before. She looks so goddamn happy.)_

Raven’s office is the polar opposite. Crushed _Red Bull_ empties posted like sentinels at each corner of her desk, the trash can overflowing with candy wrappers and take out containers. An array of cracked lighting instruments and dissected machinery litters the floor. There’s a large sign tacked over her cluttered desk screaming: _“The Raven’s Nest”_ in garish neon green lettering. She also has a painting on one wall of Neil deGrasse Tyson surfing on a giant, flaming meteor emblazoned with the words: _‘Science & Reason, Bitches’._ The meteor is hurtling straight for Trump Tower. _(And Dr. Tyson couldn’t be more pleased about the whole affair, judging from the double-fisted birds he’s wagging at that iconic eyesore he’s about to demolish.)_

As they approach the door at the end of the hall, they hear Lexa talking on the phone.

“That’s not going to happen, Gus,” Lexa says around a disbelieving laugh. “So you can rest easy, okay?”

Octavia slows, settling against the wall and holding up a hand to Clarke. _We need to wait._

Clarke joins her, resting her back against the opposite wall.

“No, I fly out on the…” Lexa resumes, and Clarke can hear her shuffling through papers. “The 10th. Just two nights. Nia wants to meet. So we can discuss a few things.” She pauses. “Just…a few things, Gus.”

There’s a squeak, the unmistakable sound of an office chair that’s served some hard years rolling across the floor. Lexa sighs impatiently. “It’s not like that, I promise. It’s just a discussion, that’s all.” A beat. “You know I would never sign anything without you there, so stop that.”

Clarke quirks a questioning eyebrow at Octavia and points to Lexa’s door, mimicking holding a phone to her ear. _Who’s she talking to?_

Octavia shrugs. “Gus. Her agent,” she whispers. 

Nodding, Clarke glances toward the doorway again. She notices the low swell of music playing from somewhere inside, and strains to hear if she can pick out what Lexa’s listening to.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Lexa mutters. There’s a moment of silence, and then she says: “Echo doesn’t seem to trust her, but you know how seldom that happens. So I’m just really not sure at this point. But don’t think for a moment I’m not considering every angle of all of this, okay?” She laughs, sounding less tense now. “I promise, Gus. If that happens, you’ll be right by my side. As always.”

The next break in Lexa’s conversation is shattered by Octavia’s stomach gurgling so loudly and angrily Clarke swears _she_ can feel it from where she’s standing. 

Octavia pulls a pained, ridiculous face, clutching at her belly. Unable to stop herself, Clarke bursts into giggles.

“Girl, I’m so fucking hungry…” Octavia moans quietly, giggling now, too.

“Hang on a second, Gus,” they hear Lexa say.

The door swings open. Lexa sticks her head out.

Spies the two of them pressed against their respective walls, wearing matching guilty expressions and fighting to smother their giggles. 

It feels like she’s caught them smoking under the bleachers or something. Clarke gives her an embarrassed half-wave.

Lexa draws back in mild surprise, then shuffle steps and drops her gaze to the boots she’s wearing today. “Um, I’m going to need to call you later, okay?” She glances back up, her eyes darting between the two of them again. “Yeah. Okay.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, one more quick thing, though. The 10th? Can you pick me up at LAX? Excellent. Thanks so much. Yeah. Alright. You, too. Take care, Gus.”

She ends the call and raises her eyebrows at them. She doesn’t look displeased at the interruption, really, so that’s a promising sign. Just thoroughly confused. 

“Sorry about that,” Octavia says, stepping forward hastily. “Anya sent us to pick up some checks? She thought you might have them.” 

Lexa nods, her eyes flicking back to Clarke before she looks into her office. After a moment, she shifts as if she can’t quite decide which direction to turn. “Right. Of course.” She disappears inside the office, then leans back out, beckoning them in as an afterthought. “Sorry. Come in.”

As they step through the doorway, Clarke is enveloped by the smell of sandalwood and… _something else._ Something familiar that immediately triggers a vague sense memory for her. _God, what is that?_ She notices a cushy red leather chair and chaise lounge situated on the far side of the room, beneath a long window. _Ohhh…leather. Nice. Very nice._

Lexa’s office feels a bit like walking into a library. Floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with title upon title, a small, unassuming desk covered with file folders and manila envelopes, Lexa’s ever-present notebook. A large mug on a coaster, two teabags still steeping within, even though it looks like the tea has long since gone cold. And an open MacBook, quiet music drifting from the speakers. It’s all so cozy and calm and settles right into Clarke’s chest like a cool, clean breath of seaside air. She feels herself smiling without even meaning to. 

And she knows — without question — there’s a good reason for the tranquil atmosphere in here. Not only because Lexa doesn’t seem to do anything without purpose or care, but…this is a sanctuary for her as much as a work space. She spends a lot of time in this room. 

A small thrill chases up her spine at the realization, and Clarke skims over everything as quickly as she can, cataloguing each random detail she can find. It’s an unplanned but entirely welcome bonus, this chance to collect a few more snippets of Lexa. 

There’s a small poster frame hanging behind the director’s desk, but no other pictures she can see. The frame contains a playbill and a _Times_ review, and the title reads: _“No, You Won’t Fool The Children of the Revolution: Gonakru Nova Debuts”._ The playbill is signed by the entire company of _Gonakru._

On the other side of the desk, Lexa rummages through a drawer. “Well, I thought…” she trails off, sorting through stacks of paperwork. “Ah. Here we are.” She holds up a few envelopes triumphantly. “Thank you for delivering those,” she tells Octavia as she hands them over.

Octavia nods. “No problem.” Her stomach rumbles again. 

Clarke sniffs to cover the quiet laugh lodged in her throat. O frowns at her, then turns to go, signaling Clarke by jutting her chin toward the door. 

(Clarke feels a tiny part of her stomp its foot and whine: _“But we just got heeeeere…”)_

She obligingly moves to follow Octavia, anyway, glancing at Lexa, who still looks a bit befuddled about their presence in her office. “Sorry again for interrupting you,” Clarke offers as she passes by the director. 

They are almost through the doorway when Lexa stutters: “I wondered if…if…” 

They turn back.

Lexa shoves her hands in her back pockets, turning her head toward the window and squinting grumpily at the hazy afternoon light filtering in. 

The director’s actions unleash a tingle of apprehension inside Clarke, because — even though she’s not exactly a bastion of _chill_ most days — something’s off about Lexa right now. There’s a whole new flavor to her unease, like she’s maybe wrestling some heavier concern at this moment than she’s ever been willing to unveil in front of Clarke before. Whatever it is, it’s enough to cause her to abandon her usual repertoire of restless mannerisms. She actually seems a bit _upset._

She faces them again. “I wondered if you had a moment. I’d like to speak with you.” Her voice is steadier now, her stare intent.

And she’s only looking at Clarke. 

_Fuck. This can’t be good._

Clarke snaps her head toward Octavia. 

O gives her a puzzled little nose twitch, her expression falling into something that looks an awful lot like _“Aw, shit, I think you’re in for it, girl”_ to Clarke’s trained eye.

_That can’t be good, either._

_Maybe one of us is in trouble, after all._

She opens her mouth to answer, but the words won’t come. Instead, she just gapes at Octavia helplessly. 

Octavia steps in for her. “Yeah, um…sure,” she haltingly replies, tossing a glance Lexa’s way before returning to Clarke. “I’ll just catch up with you after?” she says in a quiet voice, and Clarke can already see the apologies building in O’s sympathetic gaze. _Sorry, Griffin. I can’t get you out of this._

She can only imagine her eyes are going a little wild around the edges as she continues to stare back at O, growing more alarmed now. _No, no, no…please don’t leave me here,_ she wants to beg. But she somehow manages a slow, mute nod, anyway.

Octavia sends one more look back to Lexa, and though she keeps it respectful, there’s definitely some underlying sass to her posture now. Clarke sees the message right away. While O can’t completely spare her from whatever’s coming, she’s still looking out for her. Lexa may be her boss, but when someone she cares about is in distress, job titles mean _fuck all_ to Octavia, and even if she admires the director, she’s not afraid to put her on notice, either. Her squared shoulders and lifted chin are a quiet warning: _Be nice._

Despite the wobbly trepidation flooding through her _(Seriously, what does she want? What could I have done?),_ the move warms Clarke. 

Lexa gets the implication, too. She gives Octavia a slight nod, something passing between them that seems to temper O’s puffed-up stance, and has her moving again. Clarke tracks O’s exit all the way out the door, her heart rate increasing with each step that takes Octavia’s shielding presence away from her. 

She stares at the hallway for a moment, then heaves a deep breath, and turns back to Lexa.

Clarke’s face must project all of her anxiety loud and clear, because as soon as she looks at the director, Lexa seems to take pity on her, softening the disquieted line of her mouth. She indicates the chair by the window and says, in a gentler tone: “Please. Have a seat.”

As Clarke reluctantly slides into the chair, Lexa moves around her desk, leaning against its edge, arms folded, head down. The office isn’t very large, and there’s not much space separating them, a fact that transforms the comfy, peaceful mood of the room to something slightly more claustrophobic now. It occurs to Clarke then that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since the day of the production meeting; the thought kicks up the tempo thumping loudly inside her chest.

She watches as Lexa shifts, eyes still riveted to the strip of floor between them. She seems like she’s struggling to choose how to begin. _(She seems to do that a lot around Clarke.)_ Across the room, a guitar line sidles over from the MacBook, catching Clarke’s ear. _Wait. I know this song. This is…_

“Typhoon?” she blurts.

Lexa’s head pops up, eyebrows drawn together. “I’m sorry, what?”

Clarke points at the desk. “The music. This is Typhoon, right?”

“Oh. Right.” She still looks confused, but it’s lessening slowly as she processes the non sequitur. “Um…yes. It’s…you know them?”

“Totally, yeah. Why?”

Lexa tilts her head at her. “No, I mean, it’s…not many people do, that’s all.” Her eyes travel over Clarke’s face once, her lips twitching into the ghost of a pleased smirk. “I’m just a little surprised.”

“This is a fantastic album,” Clarke continues, grateful for an icebreaker to keep running with, something to ease the tension. She begins to ramble. “This song is one of my favorites, too. The lyrics are just so…well, they’re just lovely, really. I mean… _’Though there’s little I can do / I say a prayer / that when the wolves come for their share / they’ll come for me._ ’” She puts her chin in her hand, her gaze turning inward as she studies the floor. “That’s so, like…every time I hear that, I just kind of _melt,_ you know? It’s so simple, but it’s heartbreaking.”

When Lexa doesn’t immediately respond, Clarke raises her eyes.

Lexa’s just grinning at her. She looks both amused and a little perplexed, as if she either can’t quite unravel what Clarke’s said, or she simply can’t unravel the woman sitting in front of her.

In any case, that grin is totally _wrecking_ Clarke right now. She can feel her pulse all the way to her fingertips. She draws back into herself sheepishly. “And that was the tangent no one asked for,” she says with a short laugh, reclining in her chair. She needs so much more distance than that, but it’s as far away from Lexa as she can get at this particular moment. “So sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lexa replies, shaking her head. It takes a moment longer for her grin to fade out. “That actually sort of applies to what I wanted to talk with you about, anyway.”

“What does?”

Lexa motions to her. “That…that…editing thing you seem to do when we’re speaking to each other.”

Clarke’s belly somersaults. _Well, so much for that whole pressure break we had going._ “I don’t…um…” She hopes she doesn’t look at panicked as she feels right now. 

Judging by how quickly Lexa pushes on, she thinks she probably, absolutely does. 

“No, what I mean is, I think I’ve perhaps made an error with you that I’d like to correct. I think I’ve given you an impression that I didn’t mean to make.”

 _Not. Helping. Lexa._ In fact, that makes it so much worse. Clarke just stares at her in mute, raised-eyebrow anticipation. _Oh no. She’s figured out I’m all hung up on her and she’s about to…_

“I understand there was an incident the other night.”

Clarke blinks. It takes a second for her to catch up, and then her face falls. “Octavia told you,” she sighs. _I’m going to kick her ass…_

“No, actually. Anya did. Raven confessed to me, too, but Anya told me first,” Lexa replies, uncrossing her arms and resting her weight against her palms on the desk. “I wish _you_ had, though,” she adds quietly.

Clarke drops her eyes and fidgets. “I didn’t…like, there wasn’t any reason to even mention it. It was just this dumb, minor thing, and it’s all over with now, anyway. I didn’t want to…there just wasn’t any point.”

“But there was,” Lexa counters, and her voice has turned solemn now. “That’s not the kind of behavior I expect of my company members, especially when one of them is my stage manager. They both know better. That’s why Anya approached me first. She knew she’d made a huge mistake. She never likes to admit she’s wrong, but when she is, she will always account for it, at least. And she knew it would be so much worse for her if I heard it from someone else.”

That throws her. _Anya? Really?_ She’s not sure if she can handle yet another glimpse of humanity out of the stage manager today. She straightens, puts down that thread to focus on Lexa again. _(Like when are you ever not focused on…oh my god shut up and eyes up, Clarke…)_

She shakes her head. “It’s really not a big deal. And they both apologized already, so…honestly. It’s over.“ 

“Even still,” Lexa says, and Clarke catches the flash of banked anger that crosses her face, “it should never have happened, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to say —“

“I do,” Lexa cuts in, insistent. “And I am.” She peers at Clarke. “I’m also sorry that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to come to me about it. I knew something was wrong the day you had such a tough rehearsal, but you wouldn’t…” She takes a breath and ducks her head, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

Inside, Clarke feels that familiar, plaintive _pull. My god, Lexa. You’re killing me._

“Anyway, when Anya told me, it all clicked into place. I’ve been trying to find the right moment to bring it up, but I’ve been handling a lot of competing responsibilities the past few days and I just couldn’t seem to…” Lexa raises up, gives Clarke an adamant look. “What I said that first day, I meant it, you know. We support each other here. It’s what _Gonakru_ has always stood for, what I’ve always wanted it to be. You’re a part of that now, too, Clarke.”

She will never get tired of hearing Lexa say her name. _Ever._

A little shiver travels down her back, and she clears her throat. “I, um…” Unable to hold Lexa’s gaze, she steeples her fingers, staring down at her hands. “I’ll try to remember that. It’s just…” Everything grinds to a halt. She wants to say this. She does. Just get it out in the air, the thing that’s been plaguing her since their first rehearsal. But it feels like such a tipping point. And she’s just really not sure which way the needle will fall once she’s given it a good, solid shove.

Lexa waits. “It’s just…?” she prompts quietly.

 _Here goes nothing…_ “It’s just…there are a lot of things in my past that I’m not…well, I’m not proud of, for sure. I can’t hide them. I mean, they’re out there, whether I want them to be or not. So I know people are going to talk, and I just deal with it and carry on.” She glances up, sees the intensity with which Lexa’s watching her now, and immediately falters, her eyes sliding away again. 

She inhales roughly, her pace picking up. “And, I don’t know, you’ve seemed a little, like, closed off since we started up and I just sort of figured it had to do with all of that and this whole thing isn’t really something I’d ever complain about in the first place, anyway. So I didn’t want to bother you with it. At the end of the day, they’re just words, you know? They don’t matter.” She can feel her hands shaking, so she clasps them together in an effort to conceal them.

In the quiet that lingers after she stops speaking, she hears Lexa shift and resettle against the desk.

The music switches, a soft acoustic line rings out. 

_“This is how the story went,  
I met someone by accident…”_

Clarke closes her eyes. _Jesus. It’s like the universe is doing this to me on purpose. Not this song. Not right now. Please._

“I’ve seemed…closed off?” Lexa asks. She sounds so unsure.

Clarke looks at her. _How do I even begin to answer that?_ “I mean…you’ve been really busy, I get that. You’ve just seemed a bit…” She trails off, and can’t seem to find a safe place to land. She huffs in frustration, gives up, and just spits out the plain, honest truth. _(Definitely not a safe place.)_ “I don’t know, like you’re pulling back all the time or something. I just thought it was maybe because of all the messy stuff I’m attached to, like you sort of wanted to keep your distance.”

Lexa’s blushing harder than Clarke’s ever witnessed before. “I, uh…I didn’t realize…that wasn’t my intention,” she splutters.

 _Damn it._ She’s making Lexa so uncomfortable right now. “It’s okay,” she hastens to add. “Really, it’s fine.”

_It’s not fine at all, but I’m throwing a line to a drowning victim here. You’ve got to pick your battles sometimes._

Lexa nods slowly, putting herself back in order. The red tint to her cheeks starts to fade. “Then it seems I owe you another apology. I’ll be more aware of that going forward.”

_“I wish I could lay down beside you,  
when the day is done…” _

_Seriously. Come ON…_

“But I want you to understand something,” Lexa goes on. 

The earnest pitch of her voice causes Clarke to meet her eyes.

“We all stumble sometimes. Every last one of us. I would never judge you for whatever mistakes or misdeeds occurred in the past.”

Something unlocks inside Clarke at that, like a band snapping loose behind her ribs, her lungs finally able to expand in an indulgent stretch.

“I want to know who you are now,” Lexa says, and there’s some deeper emotion flaring in her gaze Clarke scrambles to pin down. “That’s who I consider. And that’s who I chose when I asked you to join us here. I saw it from that very first day, at your audition. I knew it had to be you, because you _are_ Devin. You’re a survivor. A fighter. You’ve struggled, you’ve lost, but you still stand up, dust yourself off, and try again. No matter how much it hurts. Or how much it makes you want to run. You still persevere. There’s so much strength in that. I don’t think you even realize how resilient you are.”

Clarke is gripping the edge of her chair so hard now her fingers have gone numb. She stares at Lexa, struck speechless. Nothing… _nothing_ about the director indicated she’d been looking that closely, and she feels completely blindsided and dizzy with what it implies. _How do you see all of that in me? How do you see that much at all?_

Rather than appearing unnerved by Clarke’s continued silence, Lexa instead seems somewhat bolstered by it. She smiles and pushes off the desk, returning to stand beside her office chair. The cadence of her speech changes, growing casual, airy. “You should also know the penalty I’ve given Raven and Anya will definitely keep them from ever doing something like this again.”

But when she rests her hands along the back of the chair, Clarke notices they’re trembling slightly. _Oh, I get it. This is Lexa the Illusionist in front of me right now,_ she thinks. _She’s having a bit of trouble with all this truth telling, too, so she’s steering us toward a detour._

__

_She’s so much better at hiding than I am._

__

Clarke inhales sharply and shakes her head once, straining to reengage now that Lexa’s so handily knocked her on her keister. “What’s that?” she says, her voice cracking, despite her efforts.

__

“They’ll be leading the backstage tour when that third grade class from _P.S. 41_ visits _Gonakru_ next week. I’ve put them on kid wrangling detail.”

__

“Ohhhhhh…” An evil laugh bubbles up inside Clarke. She stops, her hands pressed to her mouth in disbelief. “They’ll totally hate that.”

__

“Yes, they will.” And Lexa smiles like this is a misery she’s perhaps wanted to inflict on Anya and Raven for _years._ (Those two have undoubtedly had it coming long before Clarke ever wandered onto the scene.) 

__

Lexa sobers a bit. “Though I have to disagree with something you said.”

__

Clarke leans forward, eyebrows raised. 

__

“Words absolutely matter,” the director says, glancing down and folding her hands together. 

__

When she looks back up, she gives this impudent little smirk that Clarke’s never seen Lexa use before, and it sets off an immediate storm cloud of heat inside her, causing Clarke’s fists to clench against her thighs. 

__

“It’s kind of mean to tell a writer otherwise, Clarke.” 

__

And in that moment, she wants nothing more than to march around that desk and kiss Lexa senseless.

__

_Christ, I have to get out of here._ She vaults to her feet. “Fair enough. Noted.” She waits a beat, then drums up some forced snark to balance the sudden wooziness dragging at her. “God, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.” 

__

Lexa actually _snickers,_ her nose wrinkling adorably, then quickly smooths out her face. Despite whatever cautious steps they’ve just made toward each other, she doesn’t seem ready to idle too long in this new place just yet. _Not right now, at least._ “Well…you should probably get some lunch while you can. We have a lot to work through this afternoon, and I’ve already kept you so long…”

__

Clarke nods. She needs to breathe for a second, anyway. _Oh, god, do I…_ She makes her way to the door, then turns back, glancing at the hours-old mug of tea on Lexa’s desk. “Don’t forget to eat, either, okay?” She motions out the door. “We need you out there. Can’t have our leader dropping because she won’t follow her own advice, you know.”

__

Lexa’s expression warms. She shakes her head fondly. “I will.”

__

Clarke’s eyebrow arches.

__

“I will,” Lexa repeats. “Promise.”

__

“Alright, but I’m holding you to that,” Clarke warns, smirking. She pauses, tries to convey as much sincerity as she feels when she says: “And…thank you, Lexa. For…well, just thank you.” 

__

Lexa looks at her for a moment with so much gentle understanding it makes Clarke weak all over again. “Anytime, Clarke,” she replies softly, and there’s no question she actually means it.

__

Clarke practically runs out the door, her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. 

__

She hurries down two hallways before she gets turned around and has to backtrack, searching for the way Octavia had brought them through before. Her head is spinning so hard. She pauses by one of the darkened offices and places a sweating hand against the wall, gulping air into her lungs. _Just take a second, Griffin. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay…_

__

Except she’s not, and she knows it. She slides down to the floor in an ungraceful heap, her mind whirring through image after image of Lexa…that smirk, her trembling hands, the way she looked at Clarke when she said: _“I don’t even think you realize how resilient you are…”_

__

She closes her eyes, lets her head thud softly against the wall behind her.

__

_Fuuuuuuck._

__


	6. Shadowboxing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that happened a lot faster than I thought it would. So, the next installment is arriving a bit ahead of schedule. (Pfft. Schedule. That's _hilarious._ This is all off the cuff, all the freakin' time...)
> 
> First up, every last one of you is amazing, and beautiful, and so, so appreciated. I love hearing from you, and I'm wholeheartedly thankful for your continued kindness and for supporting this strange, long (and oh my god getting longer) trip. 
> 
> This is a shorter chapter, but it didn't feel right to say anything more. 
> 
> The next one is in the works, however, the next couple of weeks are going to be a bit of a slog-fest for me, so it may slow down the ol' production line a bit. But know this, my friends, I'm seeing this thing through til the bleedin' end, so don't give up on me. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, and -- wherever you are right now -- I hope it's treating you well. You deserve it. 
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Julien Baker.

*************************

_“Oops, I did it again,_  
_I played with your heart,  
got lost in the game, ooo baby, bay-ba-yay-aaa…”_

Clarke and Octavia stare in spellbound horror as Jasper gyrates and swings the mic so wildly he nearly takes out Harper beside him, who is gamely back-up dancing through the complete nightmare unfolding on _Tondisi’s_ stage right now.

“Woooooo!!” Echo shouts, waving spirit fingers over her head. 

“Get it, Jasper!” Raven cries.

Octavia has evidently seen enough. She stands up, pointing at Clarke’s glass. “Drink up, sister. I need more booze to get through this, and I’m dragging you down with me, whether you like it or not.” She pushes through the crowd to presumedly head for the bar.

Monty swivels back around, looking at Clarke. “He did this at my mom’s birthday party last year, too.” He shakes his head with the kind of _“what-are-you-gonna-do?”_ shame universally known among patient best friends and siblings alike.

Clarke pats him on the hand sympathetically.

“Alright, Echo, since you’ve actually joined us lowly theater plebs for a karaoke night, you’ve got to sing,” Raven says, flipping open the greasy songbook binder on their table. “What’s it going to be?”

“No, no, no…” Echo protests. “No way in hell. I’m a terrible singer.”

“Excuse me, Ms. North?” comes a timid voice from behind them.

Everyone turns, finding a pair of wide-eyed girls standing rigidly beside the table. “We don’t want to intrude, but we were wondering if we could maybe get a picture with you?” one of them asks, gaping at Echo as if she were the last fucking unicorn or something.

Echo brightens immediately, her voice sliding into an enthusiastic, well-rehearsed lilt that somehow sounds both condescending and appropriately flabbergasted, like: _‘gosh, isn’t that sweet, oh no this never happens to me…’_ “It’s okay!” she replies. “Of course, I’d be glad to.” 

She maneuvers in to stand between the girls, who are so excited they’re actually bouncing in place now. Their giddiness makes Clarke grin; she remembers this part fondly, the endearing enthusiasm of a fan who really loves something you’ve done. She thinks it’s wonderful when a person just absolutely loses her ability to be cool because she’s so revved-up about meeting someone. 

Monty and Raven simply watch it all happen like extra-terrestrials are actually landing right here in front of them, and they haven’t the foggiest clue what to do about it.

“Oh my god, thank you so much,” one girl says once the picture is snapped.

“Yeah, _Night Moves_ is our favorite show ever,” the other one gushes. “It’s incredible. Like, that cliffhanger finale has ruined me. I can’t wait for next season!”

Behind them, Octavia and Lincoln have wandered back through the crowd. Octavia stares at the girls blocking her chair in impatient confusion, drinks curled in both of her hands.

Echo notices Octavia and quickly separates from the girls, side-stepping back over to her seat. She’s trying to end this encounter before O has a chance to turn it ugly. “That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you for supporting us,” Echo drawls, gaze anxiously pinned on Octavia. “You two have a great night! Be safe.”

The girls call a few more _“Okay, byes!”_ and _“Thank you agains!”_ at them and rush away, chattering and clutching at each other.

“Be safe?” Octavia scoffs as she settles in beside Lincoln. “That’s a mom line, Echo. You’re better than that.”

Echo grins and narrows her eyes like she’s completely affronted, but there’s relief there. She looks like she was ready for O to be much nastier about the whole thing.

“Look at the fucking TV star go,” Raven laughs, shoving at Echo’s shoulder. She actually sounds slightly impressed. “Those poor girls looked like they were about to piss themselves.”

“When do you start back on your show, Echo?” Lincoln inquires, sliding drinks to everyone as he talks. He’s gotten everyone another round without being asked to, because, again… _just that guy._

“The week after we close here, actually. We’ve been on hiatus since October.”

Octavia cocks a disgusted eyebrow. “Christ, you get a four-month break? I haven’t had a full week off in…” She looks around the table for help.

“It’s been a minute,” Raven supplies. “Different worlds, dude. We don’t get those types of schedules down here in the dirty theater realm.” She pauses, blinking vapidly at Echo like a pageant queen. “Our reward is artistic integrity…”

Echo laughs and waves her hands at her dismissively. 

“Spoiled fucking TV people,” Octavia spits, shaking her head. She jabs a finger at Echo and lets a smirk emerge, despite her grumbling. “I gotta say, though…you’ve snagged a pretty sweet gig, you asshole, and I’m jealous. I’d rather stab myself in the eye than work on TV again, but that kind of break would be amazing.”

Echo takes Octavia’s griping good-naturedly. “Oh, believe me, I know. Sometimes pure, dumb luck happens. No one can ever really guess how these things are going to go.” She motions at Octavia and Clarke. “You know how it is.”

Clarke smiles and shrugs. Yeah. She knows exactly how it is.

“But…” Echo says, standing up and taking a final swig of her drink. “I’m afraid this _spoiled fucking TV person_ is going to have to call it a night, everyone.” She winks at Octavia playfully. “I can’t keep the same hours as you all.”

Raven boos. “Not with that lousy attitude, you can’t. That’s just loser talk, Echo.”

“Whatever,” Echo laughs. “I know, I get it. I’m lame,” she says, shrugging into her jacket. “I’m also very tired, and my hotel’s calling my name.” She glances around the table and throws exaggerated kisses at them all. “This was so much fun, though! Thank you for letting me join you tonight.”

Lincoln raises his glass. “You’re welcome at our table any time, Echo.”

Echo’s face shifts, and she briefly tucks down her chin like Lincoln’s words have hit her somewhere she maybe really needed them to. She looks a little moved. She raises up and gives them a wide smile. “Thank you.” Her phone chimes. “Ah, that’s my ride,” she says as she checks the screen. “I’ll see you all in the morning, my lovelies…” She waves and slips away into the crowd, smiling the whole way.

Raven studies Echo as she departs and the rest of them call their farewells to her. She turns to the group. “Okay, now I get why Lexa was on board with that one. She’s alright.”

“Agreed,” Lincoln replies.

“She’s pretty cool,” Monty adds.

“Most of the time, yeah,” Clarke says, giving Octavia a pointed _“told ya so”_ nudge. 

O just sips her beer and shrugs. But the fact that she doesn’t immediately launch into a curmudgeonly diatribe about all the reasons the actress is terrible means Echo has managed to win at least a sliver of approval in Octavia’s book.

Clarke smirks and surveys the crowd, landing on Niylah and Murphy, who are standing at the bar together chatting. Niylah throws her head back and laughs at something Murphy’s said, and Clarke takes in the fluid, carefree way she moves, the relaxed slant of her shoulders as she leans into the bar. There’s this whole, _hassle-free_ essence about the costumer that she’s honestly a little envious of sometimes. She seems so secure, so fully at home inside herself without ever appearing like she’s working at it. No effort required, the woman just _flows._ She’s wearing this long purple tunic top that’s cut at an asymmetrical edge along the hem and dips low, exposing her long neck, her dancer’s collarbones. _She’d be so easy to sketch,_ Clarke thinks. _She has terrific lines._

Clarke flashes back to their encounter last week, how Niylah’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and Clarke thought it was cute. How soft and warm her hand felt. _Maybe I should seriously consider that offer. If nothing else, it would be a distraction. Maybe help me not feel so fucking out of control anytime Lexa walks into the room…_

She thought perhaps their careful attempts to be more communicative might settle some of that down. True to her word, Lexa’s been far less formal around her lately; no more of that _“eye on the door”_ behavior. They’ve even traded a few rounds of quick-fire kidding over the past week. (Clarke revels each time she manages to land something that causes Lexa to do that _one-quirked-eyebrow, pursed-lip_ thing she does. The one that makes her insides go all topsy-turvy because _oh my god, it’s so goooood.)_

Lexa has also been seeking Clarke out here and there to simply ask a question or share some slice of information about how the set build is coming along or blocking changes, things she used to reserve for after-rehearsal notes with the whole group. Twice now she’s stopped by her dressing room just to see how her day was going. (Both times left her a grinning, buzzing _mess_ afterward. But she’s certainly not complaining.) 

Each moment she hears Lexa laugh, or looks up and finds her watching, smiling, checking in… _being there, and making damn sure Clarke notices_ …it still just takes her out at the knees. She’s never met anyone before who has made her feel this wired, as if she’s nothing but undressed nerves, bright and reactive as phosphorus sparking. And no matter how much she tries to cover herself, everything still shines right through. 

She’s not sure if it’s simply wishful thinking, but there seems to be a new… _awareness_ blooming between them. Something is definitely there, reclining in the spaces between their hushed words and longer, closer looks. (Sometimes, she suspects Lexa is maybe beginning to pick up on it, too.)

Whatever it is, it feels perilous. Sharp, and risky. Something that could make her bleed if she doesn’t hold it right. 

And scary as _fuck,_ too. Almost like…that moment of searching for a way out of the woods as the light fades fast, and suddenly hearing all the wild things go silent and still.

Her eyes travel over Niylah again. 

It would be so much easier. And she _likes_ Niylah. Niylah is kind, funny, cultured…she loves art and music and saving animals and Clarke’s favorite Indian food place in the Village. Most importantly, Niylah is _interested_ in her. Right here, right now. No endless questions to ask, obsess over, pick apart. No shadowboxing. It would be so simple to just let go and drift closer, see what develops.

But Lexa is…

 _Ugh._

When she looks at Niylah, Clarke’s artist’s eye conjures mellow spring rains and long, languid kisses, extended foreplay…the kind with lie-back tunes and lighthearted jokes and fingertips mapping out every smooth, supple curve. 

But when she looks at Lexa, she sees the sizzle-shiver of a lightning strike. Grasping hands splayed across hips. A squall line of gasps and fever chills and a fire that burns green in the dark…

She exhales slowly. No, there’s nothing simple about Lexa. Lexa is brilliant. Wounded. Terrifying. Beautiful. Lexa is a _force,_ devastating as a tsunami. Lexa is something you can’t outrun if you get too close.

_Still._

_Oh, how I want to._

“You must want to either fuck or kill whoever you’re thinking about right now,” Raven says with a low giggle.

Clarke startles and turns to her.

“I’m guessing from that guilty expression it’s…both?” 

“Sorry,” Clarke says, blinking and trying to focus on the designer. “I was just…just have something on my mind, that’s all.”

Raven smirks at her. “You don’t say.” She slides Clarke’s glass closer to her. “Bar time is not thinking time, Clarke. You save that shit for when I’m not around demanding to be entertained, okay? Monty just wandered off and those two are carrying on about…I don’t know, some kind of _Crossfit_ bullshit or something.” 

She flicks a hand at Lincoln and Octavia, who have leaned in toward each other, conversing. Octavia hears her, and breaks from Lincoln long enough to fire a glare at Raven. “Oh my god, for the last time, it’s Tae Kwon Do, Raven…” She rolls her eyes and returns to speaking with Lincoln, pointedly turning her back to them.

“She used to compete,” Clarke explains to Raven.

Raven stares, clearly not caring in the least. “Fascinating.” 

Clarke grins, then glances across the room at Niylah again. _If there’s something about her I should be wary about, Raven would know…_ She tilts her head. “What do you think about Niylah?”

A puzzled wrinkle forms between Raven’s eyes. “Niylah? She’s cool. Why?”

“No reason, really. I was just curious,” Clarke says as she plays with the straw in her drink. She can feel Raven’s stare burning against her cheek.

“She made a move on you, didn’t she?”

Clarke freezes. “What? I didn’t say —“

Raven cackles. “Oh, dude. You didn’t have to. She totally did, though, right? Fucking Niylah…I love that girl. She’s never been shy when someone’s caught her eye.”

A blush erupts across Clarke’s face, and she frowns at the table, caught out and unable to respond.

“Hey…” Raven relents, sobering. “There’s no reason to pull that face about it, Griffin. Seriously, Niylah’s great. She’s like one of those sex positive, _no-strings-attached_ kind of girls, you know? And you are _so_ her type. Hot, smart, artsy. All…tits out with your emotions. She’s probably been itching to grind on that since you walked in the door…”

“Oh my god. Stop it,” Clarke groans, covering her face with her hands. 

“All I’m saying is, when she sees something she likes, she just goes for it. I respect the hell out of that.” She pauses, casting a glance across the room at the costumer. She looks back at Clarke. “We even hooked up a few times back when she first started working at _GN._ ”

Clarke whirls on Raven, eyes wide. 

Raven cackles again, placing her hand over Clarke’s where it rests against the table and squeezing. “Sorry, sorry…my god, it’s so easy to throw you for a loop, dude. That’s hysterical…”

“Are you serious?” Clarke hisses quietly, leaning closer to the designer so as to not draw Lincoln and Octavia into this right now. Thankfully, they seem to still be engrossed in their own exchange, and aren’t paying a bit of attention. “Please don’t fuck with me, Raven. I can never tell when you’re kidding.” 

Raven lets go of Clarke and composes herself, taking a sip of her drink before she speaks again. “Yeah, totally serious. Like I said, it was just a casual thing, no big deal. She sort of cut a path through the company when she got hired. Me, Murphy, Monroe…hell, she even dropped that ol’ sexy Wiccan charm on Lexa for a while.”

At that, Clarke’s stomach dips. A stab of icy fear spikes through her. _No, please…I can’t handle hearing…_

“Lexa was the only one of us who turned her down, of course,” Raven adds, and Clarke draws a quick, relieved breath. “But Niylah put up one hell of a campaign trying to seduce her, anyway. Poor Lexa. By the end of it, she’d practically walled herself up inside her office to avoid running into her.”

With a smirk, Raven leans back and glances up at the stage. Murphy’s just appeared at the mic, apparently about to take his swing at karaoke night.

Clarke watches her for a moment, then decides to blunder into much more dangerous territory. “So, does Lexa just not…?”

Raven turns back, and suddenly Clarke feels like she probably shouldn’t continue down this line. Raven’s way too smart, she’ll pick up on any wrong move she makes, and Clarke’s opening herself up for potential disaster here. 

“What?”

Clarke blinks, completely unsure how to proceed. _Alright. Say something, dingus, or that’s even more suspicious._ She straightens up, tries to act as uninterested as possible. “Like, was it just that she doesn’t date company members, or does Lexa just not really…date in general?”

Raven peers at her a beat too long, as if she’s determining something. It causes Clarke’s heart rate to kick up a notch. Finally, Raven shrugs. “No, I mean, she…she’s had a couple flings over the years. But she’s so fucking busy it’s mostly just been like a few dates or a one night thing, I think. Company members, though? That’s definitely not her style. More than anything, I think Niylah was just a little too much for her. She doesn’t deal well with people being that, like, forward, you know? I think she just didn’t know how the fuck to handle someone so blatantly throwing herself at her.”

Clarke nods casually, but she really wishes Raven would quit staring at her like that. It’s making her fidget.

“So, are you gonna go for it, or what?” Raven asks.

“I don’t…well, I just don’t…”

“A word of advice, if you do…” She interrupts, then takes a long drink, seeming to draw it out even longer once she notices how far Clarke has leaned in to hear this. She sets her glass down, waggling her eyebrows. “Stretch first and carb up. Niylah does a shit ton of yoga, dude. I was not prepared our first round out of the gate. She nearly broke me.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus…” Clarke chokes, dissolving into giggles.

Raven laughs and throws her hands over her head in triumph. “Yes. The streak continues. Raven 3, Griffin 0. Game, set, match, muthafucka…”

A swaggering blues shuffle suddenly starts up, and Murphy belts (in a pretty decent Sinatra impersonation):

_“That’s life,  
that’s what people say…”_

Octavia looks up, noticing Raven’s gleeful celebration, Clarke’s pale face. She frowns. “What did you do, Raven?”

Raven waves her off. “Just tossing out some sound wisdom to my buddy Clarke here, that’s all.”

“Right,” Octavia replies. “Griffin, what did she do?”

“It’s nothing,” Clarke insists, shaking her head. She glances back at Raven, still giggling. “I mean, I guess it was sort of good advice…”

Raven grins, then her expression abruptly flattens out as her eyes level on Octavia and Lincoln. “You two, though…are on my shit list.”

“Why?” Lincoln asks.

“You assholes still haven’t told Clarke about Lexa yet.”

Octavia and Lincoln both flinch as if Raven’s just slapped them. 

The sudden record-scratch gravity shift in the atmosphere has Clarke reeling, searching for something to hold on to while she tries to process what’s going on. She feels the blood drain out of her face all over again.

Raven pivots to Octavia. “You said you were going to talk to her, and you clearly haven’t.”

“I know, okay? Christ. It’s just not something that’s exactly easy to bring up, alright?” Octavia defends as she scowls and picks at the label on her beer bottle.

Clarke swings her eyes between them as if she were watching a tennis match, a high-pitched hum screeching through her brain now like feedback. _What exactly haven’t you told me about Lexa? What the fuck is happening here?_

“She needs to know,” Raven declares lowly, and her face is as stern and serious as Clarke’s ever seen it before.

Octavia shares a sidelong look with Lincoln, who simply gives a firm, reluctant nod in response, appearing just as squeamish as O right now. She turns to Clarke with a rough sigh. “Alright, but…” Her eyes travel up to the stage.

_“Some people get their kicks,  
stompin’ on a dream…”_

Octavia looks back at her. “I’m not having this conversation in here.” She stands up, motioning to the stairs along the rear wall. “Come on. We’re going to the courtyard.”

Clarke rises, her guts churning with seasick dread at the bleak, determined expression O’s wearing. She looks like she’s about to walk Clarke to her own execution or something.

Lincoln follows them, then turns back to Raven. “Are you coming, too, or…?”

“Definite no on that,” Raven protests, reclining in her chair, arms crossed. “I know this story too well, dude. I honestly never want to hear it again.”

Lincoln ducks his head and nods wordlessly, heading toward the stairs.

Raven watches them the entire way, and the last thing Clarke sees before she steps out into the biting night air is the designer’s eyes on her. The raw, naked sorrow there.

**********************

The courtyard behind _Tondisi_ is cramped, nothing more than a postage stamp of open space surrounded by brick walls and containing a few scattered tables. It’s the kind of dimly-lit alcove that’s usually only frequented by smokers or lovers — a place to satisfy a craving, somewhere to go when desperation hits. In the springtime, a thick carpet of ivy normally climbs the walls, helping to dampen the endless low roar soundtrack of the city, but it’s all withered now. And even though they can still hear the sound of car horns and disembodied blips of passing conversations, it’s so much quieter out here than inside the bar. 

Quiet usually makes sense to Clarke, feels safe. Not right now, though. Nothing about this feels safe. She crams her hands into her jacket pockets and leans against the wall, anxious stare trained on Octavia and Lincoln as if she’s readying for an attack. She waits.

“Fuck, it’s cold out here…” Octavia gruffs, folding her hands inside her coat sleeves and pacing. 

Lincoln shuffles and peers out the high gate along the far wall, which leads to the sidewalk on the next block, offering a glimpse of people spilling out of cabs or the doorways of restaurants, their collars up to fight off the chill.

Neither of them seems willing to begin, and their nervous stalling is making Clarke want to scream.

She leans down, forces Octavia to meet her gaze. “Whatever it is, O, please just start talking.”

Octavia pauses her pacing and huffs quietly, steam billowing from between her lips. She checks in with Lincoln, who is at least looking at them now, so… _progress, I guess._

Then O starts pacing again, and the words suddenly erupt staccato-quick, like firecrackers popping. “Yeah, alright, so…there’s some shit I should have told you, but, like…it’s _heavy,_ okay? And I didn’t say anything before because I wasn’t sure if Lexa was going to be directing this show or not, and then I wasn’t sure if either of us was even going to be cast, and then when we all got thrown into this thing together, like…I just couldn’t find the right fucking time, right? And so I just tried to steer you away from her, and that was pretty shitty of me, too, and I get that. I’ll own up to that. But you and Lexa are kind of talking more these days, and I don’t want you to fall into some awful fucking situation with her because I didn’t let you in on this shit, either, so…”

She winds down and stops, pulling her shoulders back and staring right at Clarke as she finally says: “So. What you need to know is…before she opened _Gonakru,_ Lexa’s partner was murdered.”

Whatever Clarke had thought she’d been ready for, this is so much worse. The sudden slam of Octavia’s words just halts everything, all at once. It’s as if she’s been fossilized where she stands, her limbs suddenly numb and cold as granite. 

Octavia tucks her chin, wills herself to keep going. “Happened right after the big Halloween parade here, back in…” She looks over at Lincoln.

“2011,” he says, and for the first time since Clarke’s known him, Lincoln’s eyes are dull and hollow and so, so sad.

“Yeah,” Octavia resumes. “Some fucking nutjob fired into the crowd, and in, like, ten goddamn horrible seconds, he destroyed Lexa’s whole world. Killed Costia instantly…that was her partner. Costia.” She takes a rough breath. “I think he ended up killing, like, six people in all before the cops could take the fucker out. Just this senseless, meaningless, random fucking thing.”

“Holy shit,” Clarke is finally able to rasp out. _Oh god, Lexa…I’m so sorry…_ She wants to cry. To throw up. To rip something apart with her nails and teeth. All of it, all at once, and none of it enough to even touch the feelings quaking through her right now.

“It’s the whole reason _Gonakru_ exists at all. Lexa and Costia had been together for years, you know, went to school together. Lexa was this ridiculously bright fucking prodigy and Costia was this amazing actress and I guess they’d been, like, this total dynamic duo all through college,” Octavia says, glancing at Lincoln as if she’s asking him to step in, take some of this off of her for a minute.

He gets it. “Yeah. They were incredible together,” he adds. A slow, pained smile breaks across his face for a moment. Clarke can see memories are surfacing for him, and it’s the kind of remembering that’s still welcome when it arrives, even if it opens up sore places inside. 

Lincoln regroups and looks at Clarke. “Lexa was writing all these intense political pieces back then, Costia would star in them. Costia was _so good,_ you know? One of those people who could act without ever getting caught doing it, she was just so natural and honest and just drew people in, made them believe everything she was saying. She was so talented. Like, light years ahead of the rest of us.” 

He laughs quietly, folding his arms and turning his face up to the sky briefly before returning to Octavia and Clarke. “And people that good…there’s always, you know, like jealousy and competition and stuff, because, I mean…it’s theater. Drama all the time, right? But Costia was just…” He pauses, looks down. “She was such a wonderful person. Sweet, smart, funny as hell, and just so…like, even though she got cast in nearly every production and she was like this complete favorite among the faculty, no one — and I mean that — _literally no one_ disliked her. She was special. And she was so good for Lexa. Always cheering her on, looking out for her. She loved Lexa so much.”

Silence falls between them, Lincoln’s words hanging in the air. The mournful, awful, unsaid _“and then”_ progression waiting at the end of that sentence. 

_She loved Lexa so much, and then a monster came and stole her away._

“After she died…” And here Lincoln has to stop again, narrowing his eyes and swallowing. “Even though you’d never guess it if you met her, Costia came from money. Lots of money. Her folks own about a quarter of the real estate in Manhattan, so…you get the picture. And Lexa…well, she certainly didn’t. A lot of people don’t know this, but her parents passed away when she was a kid, and she mostly grew up in foster care. That’s where Indra and Anya come in.”

Clarke sucks in a shocked breath. _Holy…_ “Whoa…what? What do you mean?”

Octavia gives her a small, weary smile. It seems like the more they’re sharing with Clarke, the more her exhausted relief is coming through. She must have been carrying all this information for a long time now; she seems glad to be able to finally set some of the burden down. “You have to keep this absolutely secret, because, like…she doesn’t want it broadcasted, but…yeah. Indra was actually Lexa’s foster parent for about five years, right before she aged out of the system. Anya’s, too. They grew up together. And Indra’s been working in theater up here since the 80’s. She goes way back in the New York theater scene, has worked with all these big fucking names. She’s the reason Lexa and Anya got their start doing all this.” 

“Oh my god,” Clarke says, eyes wide. “I mean…that’s…” Her eyebrows furrow, and she just stares at Octavia and Lincoln, completely at a loss. “Oh my god,” she repeats, because she’s apparently unable to say anything more at this moment.

“Yeah,” Octavia says, reaching out to grasp Clarke’s shoulder briefly. “It’s a mind fuck, for sure.”

Clarke struggles to regain her composure, connecting threads as she shakes off some of her stunned surprise. _Holy hell, this is so much. I can’t even begin to get a handle on all of this…_ She breathes. “So…Costia’s family. Did they…? They helped start _Gonakru,_ didn’t they?”

Lincoln nods. “Yup. They knew Costia would have wanted…well, her parents loved Lexa, too, you know? And this was always their dream, Costia and Lexa. Opening a theater together, doing the work they wanted to do, telling the stories they wanted to tell…”

He moves toward Clarke, tucking his hands under his arms and locking eyes with her. “They wanted to create a place where we could all become as much of a community as a theater company. Watch each other’s backs while we tried to maybe make the world a little better. So Costia’s family made sure Lexa could actually still make that happen. Gave her the building and start up costs. Lexa’s been keeping us going ever since.”

In the pause that follows, Clarke’s scrambled senses seem to finally pick the card they want from the deck, and she feels tears welling. It’s so cold they actually hurt when they fall. Some part of her — deep down, in some dark corner controlling her survival — foggily registers the pain, the way her teeth are chattering, the burning in her fingertips, and sends up a frantic message: _We are under siege here. Seek shelter immediately._ She’s shivering badly.

“Hey, Clarke…” O says, stepping closer to her, voice low and quiet. “Hey, let’s get back inside, alright?”

Clarke raises up, tears dripping off her chin. The moment Octavia looks at her, she just wordlessly pulls her into a rough embrace. “I got you, sister…” she soothes, hands pressed tight against Clarke’s shoulder blades. “I know, girl. It’s a fucking _lot_ to take in, and I’m sorry for keeping it from you.”

She sniffles into O’s coat and shakes her head. “No, it’s…I mean, I would have fallen apart no matter when you told me, you know?” She draws in a harsh breath, hiccuping over a sob. “God, it’s just so fucking unfair…” 

Octavia doesn’t respond, and maybe it’s because there’s simply nothing that can stand up tall or strong enough to make any of this any better. Nothing can bear the weight of what’s been lost here. 

_A girl who just wanted to brighten the world for us all._

_A friend who misses her terribly._

_And the girl who loved her so._

She holds on to O, tries to pull herself back together. She may not be able to, after this. Something might always be torn inside her now, the corners too frayed to mend back.

“Are you okay?” Lincoln asks softly.

“No…” Clarke replies, and the word breaks. She loosens her grip on Octavia and slides away a little, turning to Lincoln. “No, but…neither are you.” 

He inhales and draws back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Then he gives her a somber, knowing smile, one that reads like a _thank you._

Clarke looks at Octavia. “And neither are you.”

Octavia ducks her head and nods, squeezing Clarke’s forearms before letting her go.

“So, maybe the only thing we can do…” she continues, wiping her face with her sleeves. “Is to just go back inside, take a breath, and help each other figure out how to be not okay together.”

Lincoln just nods as he closes the distance between the three of them, placing a hand on each of their backs and leading them inside _Tondisi._

***************************

They don’t stay long after returning to the bar. 

Nobody needs to say it, either, when the boisterous crowd becomes too much, feels too loud and wrong. They just get up, and call it an early night. Even Raven leaves with them.

On the sidewalk outside, there’s a moment. The four of them in a circle, shoulders bunched against the bitter wind and what presses on all of them now, shared among the group. 

There’s no teasing. No snappy back-and-forth bickering. 

No love disguised as sass, or knowing exactly what buttons to push, what will be forgiven and what can never be. Not even hidden beneath a _“be careful”_ or _“text me when you get home”._

It’s just love, plain and honest and right there, standing with them. Together. Arms linked and eyes up, looking at one another. 

Tonight, it’s just love.

*****************************

Clarke doesn’t sleep much that night. 

Wants to, needs to, but her mind won’t shut down. 

She lies there in the dark, thoughts turning but never straying too far from one spot:

A forlorn promise painted on the walls of _Gonakru Nova._ The one she noticed that very first day.

She thought she knew where it belonged, before.

A company swearing fealty to their leader. They wanted her to know what the work meant to them, how far they would go.

_For her, for always._

She understands now. 

Sees how it has been scratched into every surface and speck of that theater, the splintered souls working within. And the beautiful, incredible woman who holds it all together, no matter what it takes from her to keep going. 

What it cost her to begin at all.

_“This was their dream, Costia and Lexa…”_

_For her, for always._

_“You’ve lost someone.”_

_“Yes. Many times.”_

_Oh, god. Lexa…_

Lexa had to build the dream without her. She carved the memory of Costia into each corner, and filled it with people who needed patching up, and protection. 

Lexa must lose her every day.

Someday, Clarke will paint.

It's too much, too soon right now, but...someday.

_A warrior. Scarred, ashes brushed over both eyes._

_She stands proud above a city swollen with spring and light. Her people are flourishing. Shielded. Safe._

_Every wall and road stretching out below a vow kept. Her heart in every last stone._


	7. Falling Faster Than You Can Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll...I mean. Gah. You're just wonderful, every last one of you. Your comments have been incredible, and I'm so grateful any time you stop in and tell me what you're thinking about all of this so far. You don't even know how much it brightens my little corner of the world, so thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> I hope this week ahead is as bright for all of you, and I'll see you again as soon as I'm able...
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Nathaniel Rateliff

Clarke blinks at Indra, mouth hanging open inelegantly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you play?” Indra asks again, and thrusts some kind of stringed instrument at Clarke that — to her — looks like a piece of thrift store folk art, crafted by a madman.

“A little piano, yeah. But not the…” She tilts her head. “… _Pumpkin banjo_ , I’m guessing?”

Indra stares at her. “It’s a lute.”

Clarke peers back, eyes narrowed to slits. “One of these days, before all of this is over, I’m going to get a laugh out of you,” she declares lowly. 

“Challenge accepted,” Indra replies. (Far too seriously for it to mean anything other than Clarke is going to _lose._ Tragically.) 

Lexa walks by them, nose in her notebook, and says, without looking up: “We’ll have music cues.” She points a thumbs up somewhere over her shoulder. “Got that, Raven?”

From some shadowy, obscure corner house left, they hear Raven’s faint voice call out: “Roger that!”

And Lexa just keeps walking.

_How the hell doesn’t she trip, like, all the time?_

“Well, then,” Indra sighs, shoving the pumpkin banjo at Clarke. “Just try to hold it by the right end, and we should be okay.”

“That’s what she said?” Clarke tries.

Indra rolls her eyes and walks away. 

“Come on, that’s a classic!” she defends. (Which, of course, does absolutely _nothing_ to slow the assistant director’s exit.)

“That’s a fucked up guitar,” Octavia comments as she strolls up, Lincoln in tow.

Clarke looks down at the instrument. “It’s a lute, apparently.”

Octavia quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. “That can’t be a thing. That’s, like, the shit pirates bury on an island somewhere. That…” She points. “Looks like payback. What have you done to piss off Indra?” 

“Shut up, O.” Clarke plucks at the strings and immediately hurts her finger. “Ow.” She frowns, then checks around for Indra before leaning toward them and whispering: “Am I holding this right?”

Lincoln laughs. “Too bad Devin couldn’t just be, like, a drummer or something.” He glances over Clarke’s head at something happening behind her, pulling her gaze in that direction. 

Across the stage, Lexa is blocking out a scene with Echo and Niylah, pacing between the two actresses as she speaks, her hands a flurry of movement. 

Clarke loves watching her when she’s in this mode. She’s just a firestorm of frenetic energy — eyes bright and diamond sharp while she spins ideas, her whole body constantly in motion, as if she’d shake apart if she tried to keep still. Or maybe it’s just that she can’t quite contain the earthquake force of all those majestic worlds built up inside her mind.

_My god, she’s beautiful._

Clarke wasn’t sure how she might react the first time she saw Lexa again, now that she’s learned her history. She didn’t know how badly it would show, if perhaps Lexa would take one look at her and realize in an instant how deeply Clarke had crossed inside her borders. 

_(And, if so, whether she would consider her an ally, or a spy.)_

The knowing has changed some things. Heightened Clarke’s perception of Lexa like a lens calibrating, the picture lining up crisper. Before, the motivations behind some of her actions were too slippery for Clarke to catch, materializing just long enough to notice before they shimmied away.

Now, though…she has context. It’s cleared the frame in so many heartbreaking ways. 

Like that moment last week when she and Harper had returned from break, Harper gabbing on about her latest boy crush, how he could really be the _one_ — _“You know, the one? The one that you’re supposed to have forever with?”_ — and Clarke had looked up in time to see Lexa’s downcast eyes, something passing across her features that resembled a lock snapping tight.

The barely there fumble when Lexa talks about endings — someone leaving, someone passing. She’s written too much of that into this play to dodge outright, and, at times, she almost seems like it’s a choice she regrets. 

How, even a crowded room, Lexa can simply disconnect for a moment, and go away. Journey somewhere else. How she almost winces when she’s called back, as if it perhaps hurts to haul herself into this life again, or abandon the one she had just been visiting.

Or that, when she searches for Lexa, she nearly always finds her orbiting around everyone else. Unquestionably there with them, but…only gripping the hems. And maybe what Clarke previously saw as leery distance is really someone who doesn’t think she can possibly make herself fit anywhere anymore. Lexa is just too wrapped up in ghosts; they take up too much space, won’t let her squeeze in beside anyone else comfortably. So she keeps to the outside. It’s easier for her to watch over all of them from there, anyway.

To know what she’s been through, how she has somehow, _somehow_ stayed on her feet all these years, enduring what would most likely dismantle Clarke or anyone else in this company — that’s staggering enough. But to hold on like that and still take care of so many others, too? That takes a will so strong it doesn’t even seem _real._

But it’s more. Not just strength, or a need for purpose, something left to fight for when so much has been taken from her. _(Or never offered at all.)_

Consider a thing touched or torn by tragedy long enough, and one of two perspectives will inevitably emerge: 

Some can only see scorched dirt and ruin. They can’t get past the destruction, the hollowed out and shattered _hell_ of it all. _Look what has happened here._

But Clarke’s sight is rarer, clearer than that. She can peer below, where the scrappiest and most stubborn parts have sunk and grown roots, despite being starved for sun and air. _Look what has been left behind._

And she’s finally figured it out, that duality she has sensed within Lexa from the beginning, the one that endlessly changes shape, bends like smoke over a battlefield. What makes her seem like she’s moved and pulled so many ways at once. 

_Hope._ It still lives in Lexa, and Clarke sees it _everywhere._

She hasn’t given up. Not yet. 

Though her lover’s heart grieves, _(and always will, Clarke knows)_ …it’s hope cleaving her down the center now. It’s in every word she’s written for them, all those moments they’ve needed her, and found her already waiting, steadfast and sure. It’s also what makes Clarke look at her sometimes, and feel like Lexa is standing there bleeding into the air, right in front of them all. 

She still _believes._ Believes that kindness is worth spreading, love is worth reaching for…that she can still make us better. 

Yes, there are dangers — always dangers — nearby, but she can fend them off, hold the line. She’s left a few gates open for her people to get safely through. And all she wants — all she’s ever really wanted, maybe — is to just help them learn there is so much _good_ left to be had in this life, if they only look for it. It’s so fragile, it can be lost so horribly fast, so find it, pull it close, wear it every chance you get, drag it across your heart like an anointment. Don’t stop searching. 

As long as she is here, she’ll keep trying to show them how. 

She'll keep drawing maps, giving them stories.

Lexa builds worlds, and she is a master at it. 

But Lexa is a whole _galaxy,_ all on her own. 

Clarke thought she had seen depths in her before. Now, though…now she knows better. Because the breadth and stretch of what exists inside Lexa is so vast, so achingly _gorgeous_ that Clarke sometimes watches her across a room, and suddenly finds she can hardly breathe anymore.

So, yeah. Everything is coming through laser-fine and shining like a knife’s edge lately for Clarke. 

It’s forced her to recognize some truths. Driven places inside her from vague awareness to vivid, startling, _techni-fucking-color_ certainty, and shifted _down, down, down._ That’s the only direction she can seem to find anymore. 

When she looks at Lexa now, she sees the ground rising up, gaining on her fast. 

And every way she turns only feels like falling.

From the other side of the stage, Lexa addresses them all, causing Clarke to bounce back into the moment, inhaling sharply. 

“Alright, let’s run it back to the flashback, Sabine’s exit scene,” Lexa instructs, motioning to the actors on stage. “We’ll start with Darius’s dialogue, at: _‘If we are to make it out of the city’_ …”

She drops back to the edge of the stage while the actors move into place.

Clarke refocuses, settling into her spot. This scene begins with a banquet, and Devin is seated in the background, part of the entertainment during the big feast. _(The lute is all the rage in Sabine’s empire, I guess…)_

“Everyone good?” Lexa asks the group.

Nods all around.

“When you’re ready then, Lincoln.”

Lincoln rolls his shoulders back, his face immediately settling into a worried scowl. “If we are to make it out of the city before the barricades rise, Empress, we must leave soon.”

Echo looks over, channelling all of Sabine’s deadly power and authority. It’s eerie to Clarke sometimes how easy this is for her. How quickly she can slip in and out of character, insecurities falling away in an instant to make room for the massive might and force of _The Empress._ “Send word to the far settlements, then. We ride north, and their help is needed.” Her pitch is lower, fuller now, a voice designed for command. 

“At once,” Lincoln replies, exiting offstage.

“Emlyn, you will be leading the archers,” Echo continues.

Octavia squares up and gives her a firm nod, then follows Lincoln’s exit.

Echo turns to Niylah. A long, regretful look passes between them as Echo moves closer. “Please don’t look at me that way. You know I have to do this.”

Niylah ducks her head, folding her arms. “Of course I know. That doesn’t make me hate it any less.” She pauses, then gives Echo a small, sad smile, resignation in her eyes. “But, yes…I understand. I am yours, but you can never be just mine. I share you with so many others. When they’re threatened, you must go. This is what it means to be a leader. And to love one.”

Echo reaches for her, embracing Niylah gently. “I’ll return to you as soon as I am able, I swear it.”

Niylah links her arms behind Echo’s neck, that sad smile still curled at the corners of her mouth as their gazes lock. “I know that, too,” she says quietly.

They look at each other a moment more, then Echo kisses Niylah.

Everyone on that stage knew it was coming. They’ve been reading the words for weeks at this point. _Stage direction: Sabine kisses Marcella. It’s deep and passionate and full of every goodbye they cannot bear to say to each other in this moment._

But this is the first time any of them have seen the words on their feet, live and real and so _right there._ A couple of strikingly attractive women caught up in a fiery kiss, holding on to one another with the kind of desperation any two lovers would display when an army is actively charging toward them, intent on ripping their city apart.

It’s…intense. 

And Clarke’s staring. She can’t help it. They’re pretty, she’s human, and it’s been a damn minute since someone kissed her like that, all hungry and overcome.

Eventually, Echo pulls back, turning to Murphy. “You will ride with me, Saul, yes?”

Murphy gapes at them.

“You will ride with me, Saul, yes?” Echo repeats, a bit more tersely this time.

Murphy blows out a breath, his face falling. “Um…crap. What’s that line?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

With great fanfare, Anya sighs and flips the page of her script, taking several beats longer than necessary to search for Saul’s line while Murphy squirms on the other side of the stage and the rest of them wait in awkward silence. 

She finally looks up, pins Murphy with an amused stare, and says, monotone: _“Yes, Empress.”_

Murphy gives an embarrassed snort, shaking his head. “Right. Right. Jesus…” He looks at Echo and tries valiantly to get back into the scene again, clearing his throat. “Yes, Empress.” His voice cracks, anyway.

Graciously, Lexa jumps in, sparing Murphy from having to go any further. “Yeah, okay, let’s stop here for a minute. Good, good…” she says softly, writing notes as she moves toward the actors. She glances up, making a quick sweep around the room. “Echo, Niylah, that was perfect, exactly what we discussed. Excellent job.”

Her eyes land on Clarke. “And I liked what you were doing there, too. The way you were focused in like that. Devin has to be paying attention here, she’ll need this information when we get into the finale, and she has to recall the details about this moment. Good work, Clarke.”

Her face must be so red right now, judging by how badly it’s stinging. “Yeah, um…thanks. That’s…that’s what I was kind of thinking, too,” she lies. _I wasn’t thinking about that in the goddamn least, but whatever. I’ll take a mercy when it’s offered._

Lexa swivels on her toes and jots down something else in her notebook, then snaps it shut and smiles. “Alright, let’s move on. Set up for the next scene…”

Clarke rises, handing off her stupid lute to Monroe and grabbing her chair to move offstage in preparation for the next scene. 

Then she glances up and spots Octavia in the wings. O is smirking at her, and when their eyes meet, she mouths the words: _“Smooth, Griffin.”_

Clarke flips her off. Sure, it’s not mature. Sometimes, though, it’s the only response that will do.

************************

“Before we start back up this afternoon,” Indra announces, casting a _“not fucking around here”_ frown around the room. “Please note that we have moved some additional set pieces into place on stage, so watch your step. The open space that was there this morning may not be there any more. We don’t want anybody getting hurt. Also, most of you will get a longer break this afternoon while Lexa works with Octavia and Lincoln for the stage combat scene…“

Beside them, Octavia grins and flexes her hands together, leaning closer to Clarke and Lincoln. “ _Yesssss._ That’s going to be so much fucking fun,” she whispers. “You’re going _down,_ man.” 

She pokes Lincoln in the stomach as she says it, and he captures her hand, wagging it playfully between them before letting her go. 

Octavia turns back to Indra. (And Lincoln looks at Octavia like she really needn’t bother with knocking him on his ass, because he’s already _so incredibly gone._ )

He catches himself, glancing at Clarke, who just smiles. He drops his head and rubs the back of his neck before grinning back and shrugging a little.

“…So make good use of that time,” Indra continues, “and please don’t distract the others while they are working. If anyone is bored and can’t seem to find anything productive to do, Monroe and Miller could always use an extra pair of hands to help with the set build.” She holds up her script. “Alright, then. First up, we’re going to start on page 83, and we’ll need…Sabine and Devin only for that scene. Thanks, everybody. Let’s get to work.”

Lincoln shares a quick look with Clarke, his eyes falling on Octavia before sliding back to Clarke again. He’s just the tiniest bit nervous and fidgety now, and it’s so cute. “So…are you excited about your show tomorrow?” 

Clarke sees the subject change for what it is. Covering fire. The dude needs a second to get all those butterflies to settle down. She’s been there. _Who am I kidding? It feels like I’ve been there for fucking eons at this point…_

“You want to hear something weird? I honestly haven’t even thought about it, really. Like, I’m kind of looking forward to it, but I guess my priorities have shifted lately, you know?” And it’s almost like a reflex now, what happens next. Her gaze flits over to where Lexa is standing, talking with Miller and Indra.

Octavia notices. “So I see,” she mutters, holding back a grin.

Clarke rolls her eyes and ducks her head. 

“It sucks we can’t be there,” Lincoln replies. “I’d really like to go, but…” He motions to the stage.

“Yeah, that does suck,” Octavia agrees. It’s sincere at first, but her eyes are dancing, and Clarke sees the jab coming before she lands it. “But you know…priorities and all.”

With a sigh, Clarke turns and moves toward the stage, firing a _behave_ glance at O before she leaves. “I’ll see you two later…”

Echo is already waiting for her as she gets into place for the scene. They smile at one another and then both of them start shuffling in place, ready to get started. 

“Really nice job with that scene earlier,” Clarke comments to fill up the silence.

“Thanks,” Echo replies warmly. She cants her head and smirks. “It certainly seemed to have an… _effect.”_

Clarke laughs quietly and wrings her hands together. “Yeah. Poor Murphy.” _You are such a fraud, Griffin._

“It happens,” Echo says, giving a dismissive wave. “Some people struggle with separating fact from fiction during those kinds of scenes. It’s never been a big deal to me. I mean, it’s the job, right? If the script says kiss, you kiss. It’s never bothered me, but…”

“Oh, sure, yeah. Some people aren’t as grown up about it.” Clarke scans the edges of the stage for their director. _Come on, Lexa. This conversation is damning me to hell the longer it goes on…_

Suddenly, Lexa’s voice sounds from right behind her left shoulder. “Alright, let’s begin…”

“Sonuva…!” Clarke jumps and stumbles into the table in front of her, banging her hip bone against it hard. She whirls around to face the director, rubbing her sore hip and scowling. “I swear to God, Lexa, you’re like a ninja sometimes…”

Lexa bites her lower lip and snickers softly, but her eyes are apologetic, at least. “Have you ever considered that it’s maybe not me, Clarke? I never seem to get that kind of reaction out of anybody else around here.” 

She’s full out grinning now, and it strikes Clarke exactly where it always does — right in the belly. _Oh, you don’t have the first clue about what you do to me, Lexa…_

Clarke clears her throat and cocks an eyebrow at her. “Maybe they’re just used to your kung fu ways, _Black Canary.”_

Lexa gives her a puzzled look.

“No? You don’t know _Black Canary?_ _Sara Lance_ …martial arts expert? _League of Assassins?_ Total badass?”

The director shakes her head.

“Ugh, and to think I consider you a friend, Lexa. That’s a crying shame. We have to remedy that.”

Lexa smiles, and Clarke can’t help but notice the way her eyes sparked when she used the word _“friend”._ It seems like she maybe doesn’t mind the idea of being Clarke’s friend whatsoever, and it sets off a celebration of happy little tingly feelings all over.

At nearly the same time, they both remember that they’re supposed to be working right now, and turn to look at Echo.

She’s smirking at them. “Hi, there,” she says, giving them a wave.

Clarke dips her head and pretends to adjust her sleeves for a moment before can chance a glance at Lexa again.

She’s blushing. “Right, of course…so…let’s get started. Yeah…” Lexa maneuvers around Echo to stand in front of them both, her eyes glued to the script in her hands. “So…we discussed this scene yesterday quite a bit, and I want to see how it’s forming up since we’ve added in the new blocking, so…” She looks up, her expression completely composed again.

 _Damn, she’s like an Etch-a-Sketch or something. Just shakes that right off her face and moves on._

“…Let’s start at the top of 83, with Devin’s line, alright?”

Echo and Clarke both nod and move into position around the table to stand side by side. 

Lexa backs up a few paces. “When you’re ready, Clarke.”

Clarke stills, snuffing out all the fluttery giddiness of the last few minutes remaining inside her. She needs something far darker and much more serious for this scene. There’s a lot happening here.

When the right emotions click into place, she turns to Echo. “No, I don’t know that. But I can tell you something of which I am entirely certain…” 

She steps away and moves further down the table, running her hand along the top as she goes. “Even an empress…even _The Empress_ …can sustain damage. It’s a slow break, and it may take a very long time to show, but it’s there all the same. It’s patient. It waits.”

Clarke stops, lifting her eyes. She stares at Echo for a moment, calling up _remorse…boldness…despair…longing_ , letting it all flood into her gaze. “One day, it will open you up, Sabine. And I hope someone is there with you when it happens. Someone to take your hand, lend you strength, because a wound that old, that deep…”

She looks away, swallowing hard. “You won’t survive it alone.”

Echo takes a breath, her hands shaking as they curl into fists. She pushes off the table in frustration, moving closer to Clarke. “Please don’t speak of what may or may not be waiting for me in the distance when you… _you_ are the one in peril right now. I am trying to find a way out of this for you, Devin, but you refuse to —“

“Yes, I refuse!” Clarke cuts in, raising her voice. “You are asking me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. I absolutely refuse.”

“Only in exchange for your _life,_ ” Echo argues, her frustration turning to something more like begging now. “My advisors will show mercy, you will be pardoned. I have already arranged —“

“Oh, spare me your political negotiations,” Clarke says, slamming her palms against the table and turning around, placing her back against its edge. “I don’t want any of them when they all end in me having to stand in front of those manipulative, simpering terrorists and tell them I am a criminal when _they_ are the real villains here. They are the ones with their swords at your throat, holding you hostage. Forcing you to ask me to do this.”

Echo moves a step closer, and her anger kicks up a notch. “You don’t understand the position I am in…”

“Position? There is no position,” Clarke shoots back. “You are the ruler here. You are the law. Not your advisors. Not your subjects. There is only the position you make for yourself. You alone determine my fate, and you’re choosing to throw me to the wolves.”

“It is not a choice!” Echo shouts, suddenly closing the distance between them, her arms on either side of Clarke, pinning her in place against the table. She’s furious. “Don’t you see? It’s the only way, Devin. It’s the only way to save you…” 

Echo is trembling now, and she stares at Clarke with so much ferocious rage in her expression Clarke has to tamp down on the instinct to flinch.

Some of that must still come through, though, because Echo’s eyes cool a bit and she suddenly departs from the blocking they had worked on yesterday, in which Echo is supposed to back away from her completely here. Instead, she leans in a fraction more and bows her head low, her forehead nearly touching Clarke’s chest. 

Clarke makes a decision. It’s the only one that seems to make sense, given the direction Echo’s steered them. She raises her hand and lets it hover over Echo, as if she wants to soothe her. She hesitates there for a moment, and then her hand folds into a fist and drops limply back to her side. “If this is the only way you can offer me…” she finally says, voice strained and raspy. “Then I don’t accept. I would rather die a victim than a coward.” 

“Hold, please,” Lexa says quietly.

Echo raises up, inhaling deeply as she tries to throw off the impact of what just transpired. Clarke catches her eye and nods, understanding exactly how she feels. This scene packs a damn _wallop._

They turn to Lexa.

She’s staring. “That was…” she begins, then stops, rolling her pen over her fingers as she thinks. She smiles. “That was so much better than what we’d planned out. Beautiful work, both of you. Just…” She holds up a hand, her smile widening. “Just…thank you.”

Clarke’s face splits into a pleased grin. She’s never seen Lexa so affected by something they’ve done before, and it might be one of her new favorite things.

And then Lexa is in motion again, wound up and excited, scribbling notes as she steps toward them. “The only thing I want to maybe change about that is…” She looks up at Echo. “As you’re moving in for _‘It’s not a choice’,_ Echo, I would like to see how it plays if you approach it a little…softer, you know? Sabine is…she feels like she’s wedged into a corner and of course she’s angry, of course she wants to push back, but there’s also a parallel here…” 

She sweeps her hands between them, as if she’s brushing something aside. “…What we’ve just seen during the flashback with Marcella. So maybe instead of amping up the anger, you could try playing it as more…desperate, perhaps. If we’re ending here now, rather than the way we set it up yesterday, it smoothes that transition better. Like she’s still pleading with Devin, rather than trying to…” She holds her hands out in front of her and swirls them around as she searches for the right word. “… _scare_ her or force her into understanding how crucial this is to her, too.” 

Lexa slaps her notebook down on the table and steps closer to Clarke, standing in front of her. 

The director’s eyes are on Echo when what happens next begins to unfold, and Clarke is so grateful for that fact _(something she’ll realize much later, of course, while she’s lying in bed replaying all of this over and over)_ because she can only imagine the amount of sheer panic that undoubtedly screamed across her face in that moment was a fucking _sight._

“So when you approach her…” Lexa says to Echo, then suddenly pushes into Clarke’s space so quickly Clarke can’t even react, she’s so startled.

She places her hands on either side of Clarke, who is completely frozen, and… _dying. I’m dying. And it sure figures that this impossibly magnificent woman is the one who’s going to take me out. I called it from the start._ Her heart has quite literally seized up in her chest.

“…It’s the same kind of urgency as before, but…” Lexa finally turns, and locks gazes with Clarke.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…oh. There it goes._ Clarke’s heart _slams_ against her ribcage, double-timing to gain any ground it lost, and every ounce of blood in her body abruptly rushes in an angry tide to either her cheeks or her groin, leaving her head dizzily fending for itself.

It’s only at that precise moment — _and not one bloody second before_ — that Lexa seems to catch up. Realizes what the hell she’s doing. She blinks once, snapping back into herself.

Then her eyes widen. 

It’s subtle, but Clarke can’t possibly miss it, really. Because _holy shit, Lexa is so fucking close right now._

Lexa’s eyes travel over Clarke’s face, her mouth never closing around the _“ut”_ sound of the last word she’s said.

(And there’s not one goddamn thing Clarke can do to help her out of this mess, either. She’s a little busy, _thanks,_ trying to remain conscious.) 

She stares at the director, breath gone short and shallow.

Echo simply stands there watching the entire disaster happen, her head tilted to the side as if she’s just been asked to solve a fucking riddle or something.

Then, distantly, Clarke hears a voice. It’s muddled to her ears, sounds a bit like the _“wah-wah-wah-wah”_ of a rotor spinning, and she can’t make any sense out of what it’s saying, but… _fucking finally,_ someone’s intervening here. She somehow drags her eyes off of Lexa, slowly turning her head. 

Her savior turns out to be the last person she would ever expect. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Anya says, in a tone that indicates she’s not sorry at all. Her eyebrows are way up and her frown is tilted _waaaaaay_ down. 

(And if Clarke previously held any notion that Anya might be warming up to her and maybe isn’t still covertly planning to wrap her up in a sack and dump her in the Hudson, well… _yeah, that’s all over now.)_

Lexa jerks back from Clarke like a skydiver whose parachute has just opened. 

She flips around to face the stage manager.

“Phone call for you,” Anya tells her, giving Lexa a much-too-delighted look that can only mean the director is _in for it later, oh you better believe…_

Lexa glares back, mouth pressed into an irritated line. 

Still struggling to get her breathing under control, Clarke pushes herself up, locking her palms around the table edge.

“Indra said you’d probably want to take it,” Anya adds. “Someone from L.A.?” 

“Right. Yeah,” Lexa sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “I completely forgot…” She seems to be regaining some of her footing. Enough to put a bite of warning in her inflection, anyway, when she says: “I’ll be there in just a moment, Anya.” 

Anya must hear it, because she wisely decides to head offstage. _(She doesn’t wipe that smirk off her face, though…)_

Lexa stares at the stage floor, hands on her hips. “I’m sorry to have to…” She’s _so_ still. And so adamantly avoiding Clarke right now.

Something sags in Clarke’s chest. _No, no, no…we were doing so well,_ she thinks. _Don’t take us back to this._

_Look at me._

“Let me go take care of this,” Lexa continues, already leaning away from them. “Then we’ll run it through one more time before we move on…”

 _Seriously, just look at me. It’s okay. We’re fine._

Lexa shuffles back a few paces more, eyes still circling somewhere around her boots. “Feel free to take a break if you need one. This shouldn’t take long…” 

_I mean, we can pretend we’re fine, anyway…just…_

And then she’s retreating so depressingly fast it’s difficult to make out the quiet _“sorry”_ she mutters as she hops off the edge of the stage.

Clarke watches her go, helpless, her mind suddenly echoing with a sound like glass splintering apart.

 _Goddamn it._

****************

Clarke stares at the clock on the wall of her dressing room, then listlessly pulls her eyes back to the page in her lap. _Come on, you need to get these lines in your head before we get started again, Griffin. Focus._

She scans the page. “Haven’t you ever wanted something just for yourself?” she mumbles. “Haven’t you ever once…” She sighs and shuts her eyes, massaging her temples. She can feel a headache lurking.

Her gaze travels back to the clock.

 _You’ve been holed up in here for almost an hour. Maybe a change of scenery will help._

She stands up, gathering her things, and the unbidden image of Lexa hurrying away from her flickers across her brain. She stops, gut sinking.

After the incident earlier, when Lexa returned to join Echo and Clarke on stage, she didn’t seem as thrown as she had before. She had just stepped right back into work mode, guiding them through their scene again and carrying on as if nothing ever happened. 

Clarke had taken that as a positive sign, and immediately used the opening to try to mitigate the damage as best as she could. _God,_ how she tried. She grinned. Cracked jokes. Gave Lexa plenty of space, making sure to keep at least a foot of respectful distance between herself and the director at all times to avoid any chance of accidentally brushing up against her or crowding her too much. Her every move concentrated on projecting: _See? I’m harmless. Totally breezy and chill over here. Nothing to worry about._

But any time Lexa looked her way or spoke to her, Clarke could tell she’d drawn the curtain shut inside. Her words were a little too polished, too cautious. If she smiled, it never reached her eyes. 

Eventually, Clarke got the message. _Player Two has left the game._

She sighs, glances at the clock again. 

_I just wonder how long she’ll stay gone._

Clarke stretches her tight neck muscles and grabs her script, then trudges out her dressing room door, feeling in every conceivable way like a sore, bruised-up prize fighter.

******************** 

When she wanders into the lobby of the theater, she runs into Raven. (Not a figure of speech, either. She _literally_ runs into Raven.)

The designer is too preoccupied with her phone conversation, and Clarke’s too lost in her thoughts as she rounds the corner of the lobby, and they smack right into each other.

“Sorry!” Clarke cries, bouncing back a step.

Raven shakes her head and flutters a hand at her, like _“No big.”_

“Dude…stop panicking, alright?” she orders to whomever she’s talking to. She begins to pace back and forth, crossing the lobby floor in quick, agitated strides. “No, I set up those cues so all you had to do was key in the codes and then just stand back and watch the fireworks, man. How did they get fucked up?”

She listens for a moment, then stops. “Jake, dude. What did you do?” Whatever answer she gets makes her face instantly fall. She’s pissed. “Well, that’s why you don’t try to reprogram my shit, asshole. Or do you just think your boss hired me for this gig because of, what? My easygoing personality? My fucking top-shelf rack? No, it’s because I’m a fucking wizard and I know my shit, you dick, and you shouldn’t go messing around with my work. I mean, come on, dude. What the fuck?” She pauses, jutting her hip, jaw flexing. “Alright, take the whole thing down, and I’ll call you back in ten and walk you through the reset.” 

She looks over at Clarke, who’s still watching, her script hugged to her chest. Raven points at her phone and mouths: _“Fucking moron…”_

Clarke gives her a sympathetic nod.

“Yeah, alright. You’re still an asshole, Jake.”

She hangs up, shaking her head in disgust, then glances back at Clarke.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just this side hustle thing I’m doing,” Raven replies. “That guy is just such a fucking dumbass sometimes.” She looks Clarke up and down. “But what’s up with you, Griffin? You look like someone’s wadded up all your little feelers and thrown them in the toilet or something. You alright? I need to go knock somebody around for you?”

Clarke smiles. “No, I’m okay. But thanks for the offer, anyway.”

From inside the theater, they hear a clanging noise, and Octavia gleefully shouting: _“Oh, yeah? Is that all you’ve got, man?”_

They both turn. 

“Sounds like O’s having a good time, at least,” Clarke laughs.

Echo walks into the lobby, stopping short when she sees them. Inside the theater, Lincoln bellows a war cry.

“I see they’re not quite finished with the stage combat session yet,” Echo grins.

“You two should totally go watch,” Raven tells them. “They’re almost done, anyway, but seriously, you should go see those three competitive sons of bitches go after each other up there. They _mean_ it, you know? I’m telling you, it’s priceless.”

“Won’t Indra be mad if we go in there?” Clarke asks.

“Not if you’re quiet. She won’t care as long as you don’t get in the way.” Raven waves them forward, opening the door leading into the theater. “Come on.” 

She holds the door for Clarke and Echo, then backs away, wagging her phone at them. “Gotta go take care of this shit, but I’ll see you all soon. Just scrunch down in the last row and keep your heads down. Indra won’t even notice you’re there.”

Clarke knows that’s an outright lie, because Indra sees everything they do inside this place, all the damn time _(seriously, she’s like the Eye of Sauron or something. Only way scarier…)_ , but she follows Echo inside, anyway. They crouch low and hustle into their seats.

And when she takes in the scene happening on stage, two things hit her at once: 

_One_ — Raven wasn’t kidding. Lincoln, Octavia, and Lexa are entirely serious right now. They’re circling each other with actual fucking _swords_ that look very real and very sharp and they’re trading swipes like gladiators in an arena, blades glinting under the stage lights. All three of them are breathing hard, working through a series of complicated moves Lexa has designed for the sparring scene between Emlyn and Darius at the beginning of Act II. Right now, Lincoln and Octavia look just like the fearsome warriors their characters are supposed to be, every thrust, parry, and block executed with the kind of control you’d expect to see in a couple of battle-hardened generals.

And Lexa is…

Well. That’s the second thing Clarke notices. 

And then she dies a little.

Because at this moment, Lexa is standing between Octavia and Lincoln, sword up, taking on both of them at the same time. She’s got this primal, challenging look in her eyes and she’s actually _grinning_ at the actors as she defends their attacks, blades clashing and sliding away again with incredible speed. She’s having _fun_ up there. (So much, in fact, that she’s worked up a bit of sweat, and has thusly shed a couple of layers, and… _oh my god, look at her arms.)_

Clarke stares, her mouth falling open.

She’s never seen Lexa in anything other than long sleeves before, and _Jesus_ , she didn’t even know what she’d been missing. Lexa has _muscles_. Like, enough muscles that Clarke can see every delicious flex and pull from all the way at the back of the theater as the director’s sword slices through the air. _Just…why? I know I’m not a saint, but do I really deserve this kind of torture, universe?_

She crosses her legs and shifts uncomfortably, trying to ignore the fact that she’s beginning to perspire a bit now, too. _Breathe, Griffin…_

“Lexa is so different here,” Echo whispers, leaning closer to Clarke.

Clarke turns to her, then right back to the stage again. Her eyes aren’t ready to focus on anything else right now, apparently. She can’t seem to drag them away.

“What do you mean?” Clarke whispers back, watching as Lexa does a tricky wrist roll and performs this _cool-as-hell_ sword spin just in time to catch the strike Octavia aims at her shoulder.

Octavia backs up and nods, impressed, her eyes zeroed in on Lexa’s wrist. _(And she knows O is totally going to steal that move later.)_

“When I’ve worked with her before, outside of the theater, she’s…well, she’s just different.”

That makes Clarke finally look over at Echo. “Yeah, Lincoln said you two did a project or something together. What was it?”

Though she covers it quickly, something closes off in Echo’s expression. But Clarke sees it, anyway. “Just this TV thing a while back. Nothing important.”

She tries another angle. “So why was she so different?”

Echo pauses, lining up her words carefully. “She’s just…she was so much quieter. Serious. Still kind and friendly, but just sort of withdrawn, you know? She was a complete professional, of course, and did a fantastic job, but she always kind of seemed like her heart just wasn’t really in it. She seemed sad, almost. Here, though…she’s just so much more alive. You can tell she really feels at home here. If you’ve ever seen both sides of it, the contrast is truly pronounced. This place is good for her.”

Clarke glances up. It looks like they might be finished, because Lexa is only talking to Lincoln and Octavia now, telling them something as she walks over and lays her sword down on the table set up at the back of the stage. Lexa shrugs back into her hoodie as she talks, much to Clarke’s disappointment. 

She can sense Echo still looking at her.

“You’re good for her, too.”

“What?” Clarke asks, swiveling back to Echo and fighting the flare of anxiety the actress’s words have unleashed inside her. “What do you…?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Echo hastens to add, fluttering a hand between them quickly. “I just meant that…well, I’ve never seen her act the way she does when you two are together. She just kind of lights up, you know? You seem to bring something out in her, that’s all. It’s a _good_ thing.” She pats Clarke’s knee and smiles gently.

Clarke blinks at Echo, unable to come up with a response. _I mean, what can I possibly say here? I like you, Echo, but our friendship is nowhere near the ‘we’re talking about this topic’ stage. There’s an admission fee, and you haven’t quite paid for your ticket yet._

Her face must say it all, because Echo dips her head, folding her hands together in her lap. “I don’t want to overstep or anything,” she says softly. “And you can certainly ignore this if you wish, but…” She looks at Clarke again, her face gone solemn. Whatever she’s about to say is important to her. “Just…Lexa needs more good things in her life. She certainly deserves them, anyway. Don’t give up on her, okay?”

With that, Echo leans back in her seat, turning her attention to the stage again as Clarke quietly absorbs her words. Even if she’s taken aback by Echo’s sudden foray into deeper territory with her, she’s still warmed by the effort. She’s just having a little trouble processing it.

Her eyes travel back to Lexa. She’s still conversing with Lincoln, both of them looking at something offstage as he speaks. Octavia stands behind them, practicing that wrist roll thing. (From the looks of it, she’s almost gotten the move figured out.)

Which is why none of them notice when Jasper strolls by the table, notices Lexa’s sword laying there, and dumbly picks it up. 

Clarke watches as he holds the sword out in front of him and stares at it, wide-eyed and awed, then begins to swing the sword around like a samurai, his face contorting into a _“fuck, yeah, this is awesome”_ kind of grimace. 

Despite still feeling out of sorts, Clarke snorts at him, shaking her head. _He is such a doofus. Lexa’s going to pop when she finally sees him._

Jasper twirls and swings wide at whatever imaginary enemy he’s battling up there, really getting into it now. 

Then he catches one of his gigantic feet on the leg of the table, and goes down with a clatter.

Clarke slaps her forehead.

“Jasper, what do you think you’re doing?” She hears Lexa say. _Yeah, she’s not happy._

But Jasper doesn’t answer her.

Clarke raises up.

She can see Jasper still sprawled beside the table, but he’s face down and angled away from her so that all she can make out is the curve of his back and shoulders against the stage floor. He’s not moving.

Before she can even think about what she’s doing, really, Clarke is out of her seat and running toward the stage.

And then it’s all just chaos after that.

“Jasper?” Octavia says, moving toward the table. She stops. “Oh, shit. Lexa…” 

“Jasper!” Lexa cries, breaking away from Lincoln and sprinting across the stage. “We need you out here, Anya!” she shouts toward backstage. 

Then Lincoln and Octavia are running, too.

Octavia spies Monty, who walks out of the wings just as she’s flying past him. “Monty, go get Anya!”

Monty stops mid-stride, staring at Jasper’s crumpled form, his hands flying to his mouth. “Jasper? Oh god, what happened?”

Lexa and Lincoln are already at Jasper’s side by the time Clarke gets there, and she quickly realizes that — even though he’s thankfully still conscious — she can see why Jasper had been so unresponsive before. He’s got a huge laceration running the length of his left forearm, and it’s bleeding _everywhere_. Jasper stares in mute horror at his arm, face gone pale.

Monty doesn’t look like he’s faring any better. “Jasper? Are you okay, man?” He’s shaking badly, and his voice is all breathy and wobbly. He seems like he might be on the edge of passing out.

Octavia veers away from the group around the table and takes him by the arm. “Come on, we’ve got to go find Anya…” She locks eyes with Clarke as she leads Monty offstage. _I’ve got this one._

Clarke nods, then turns back to Jasper. Lexa and Lincoln each have a hand on his shoulder, propping him up.

“Just hold on, Jasper,” Lexa says, and every word is calm and steady. “We’re going to get some help, so just hold on…”

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Clarke asks Lincoln.

“Got it right here,” Anya calls, running on stage, Indra right behind her. 

Anya slides into place beside Clarke and starts frantically rummaging through the first aid kit. She’s breathing heavily, and her hands are shaking. Considering how blisteringly fast she arrived, she knows wherever Anya came from, she ran _hard_ to get here.

Clarke grabs a pair of surgical gloves from the kit, tugging them on as she quickly scans its contents. “Hand me that pack of 4x4’s, will you?” she asks Anya.

Anya looks up from her frenzied searching and shoots a suspicious glare at her. “Do you even know what you’re doing, Griffin?”

Clarke glares right back. She doesn’t have time for Anya’s bullshit right now, certainly not with the amount of blood Jasper’s losing, and she tries to convey as much of that in her expression as she possibly can. “Just hand me the fucking gauze, alright?” 

It must work, because Anya’s jaw flexes and her eyes glitter dangerously, but she slaps the gauze pack into Clarke’s outstretched palm without another word. 

Clarke rips open the pack and starts plucking supplies from the first aid kit, moving with a speed and sureness she hasn’t had to put into practice in years now, not since her days interning at her mother’s hospital. This was one of the things they tasked all the interns with — restocking the ER supplies, packing and unpacking trauma room kits. One of those jobs the staff hated doing but that constantly needed to be done, so Clarke clocked countless hours arranging trays of gauze, medical tape, hemostat pads, antiseptic, suture packs. It’s amazing how much of it still lives in her muscle memory, but she’s so grateful for it at this moment.

Everyone’s gone quiet. There’s just the sound of Jasper’s ragged breathing, Lexa’s low, soothing words, Clarke readying supplies. Clarke glances at Lexa, noticing how even though her voice remains completely composed and doesn’t waver in the least, her eyes are trained on Jasper’s shoulder as she speaks to him, and her complexion is a little too ashen for Clarke’s comfort. She can’t seem to look anywhere else. It’s almost as if she’s willing herself to keep it together right now just as hard as she’s working to convince Jasper everything is alright.

So Clarke takes over. “Okay, Jasper. I’m going to apply this pad to your arm first, and it may hurt for a second, but it will go away fast, okay? This is going to help slow down the bleeding so I can get this wrapped up and we can get you down to the hospital.”

Lexa has stopped talking. She’s just gripping Jasper’s shirt between her fingers, eyes still obstinately pointed at the same spot. Listening.

Jasper nods weakly, his eyes jerking away from his arm to settle on Clarke. 

Clarke smiles at him. “Alright, then. Just need you to be brave for a second, and then I swear it will get better, okay?”

“Y-yeah…” Jasper grits out. “Yeah, okay.”

She catches Lincoln’s eye, who nods and steadies his hold on Jasper’s shoulder, preparing.

“Okay,” Clarke says gently, then places the hemostat pad against his arm.

Jasper immediately flails and whimpers, forcing Lincoln and Lexa to grab onto him tighter.

“Shh…hey, you’re good, you’re good,” Clarke croons. She holds the pad in place with both hands, knuckles white with strain. “You’ve totally got this…”

Jasper rolls his dull eyes back to Clarke, and finally relaxes.

“See? I told you it would get better.” She loosens her grasp a bit, then quickly begins adding gauze pads to cover the injury, taping everything in place as she goes. “You’re going to need some stitches, but think of it, Jasper. You got stabbed with a _sword_ , dude. That’s going to make for a kick ass story later. Girls will love it.”

The corner of Jasper’s mouth quirks. “That is kind of badass, is-isn’t it?”

“Plus I see a hit or two of morphine in your future,” Clarke adds.

Now he’s smiling.

Clarke looks over at Indra. “Do you need me to help get him to the hospital?”

“No, I’ll handle it,” she replies. She turns to Anya. “We’ll need to let the others know rehearsal is over for today, send them home. Can you —“

“On it,” Anya says. She hesitates, looking at Lexa. 

Lexa rolls her shoulders back, clearly working through a jumble of galloping thoughts right now. She looks at Anya hazily. “Yeah. Uh, will you tell everybody their call time is still 10am tomorrow? Since we’re ending early, we’ll need to do some catching up…”

“Yeah, sure.” Anya steps closer to the director, dropping her volume. “You alright?”

Lexa backs up, already nodding. Clarke can see she’s trying so hard to tap into that seemingly unending well where she keeps all of her sturdiest coping skills. Judging from the concern in both Indra and Anya’s eyes, they must see it, too. 

She doesn’t answer Anya’s question. “We’ll need to grab a cab for Jasper…” she says instead, fishing her phone out of her pocket. 

“I have a car already waiting out front,” Echo pipes up behind them. “My driver can take you over.”

Indra nods in thanks at Echo and moves over to help gather Jasper.

“I’m coming, too,” Lincoln declares, hoisting the tech to his feet. “I think this guy could probably use a shoulder.” Next to him, Jasper sways woozily under Lincoln’s firm grasp.

They make their slow way across the stage, Lincoln and Indra on either side of Jasper, holding him up, and Echo trailing behind, casting a pitying glance at the tech. 

_Of course this would happen to him,_ Clarke thinks as she watches the group lumber offstage. _That poor guy is a very new soul in this world. He doesn’t have enough mileage yet to keep himself out of trouble._

She turns back to Lexa, who is staring at the stage floor now. More specifically, she’s staring at the splash of blood still left on the stage floor. Considering the extent of Jasper’s wound, it’s not as large as it could have been, but it’s jarringly red and way too mortal and sinister under the bright stage lights beaming overhead. Lexa swallows sickly, unable to tear her eyes away.

Anya notices. She moves to stand between the grim mess and the director, and Clarke finds herself closing in as well to help block Lexa’s view. 

“Let me get everyone else cleared out of the theater,” Anya tells Lexa, “and then I’ll take care of this, okay?”

Lexa snaps herself out of it, shaking her head. “No, I’ll, um…you should go with Indra. She could use your help.”

“Lex, no…” Their gazes meet and hold, something impatient and defiant brewing between them, laced with a level of familiarity Clarke could probably spot even if she didn’t know these two had grown up together. Anya’s frown is getting deeper and the line of Lexa’s jaw is tightening, and she knows an argument is about to erupt.

She jumps in. “I’ve got it.”

They turn to her, wearing identical expressions: surprise, and a whole lot of wary confusion, as if Clarke’s just spoken in a language entirely foreign to them. 

“Seriously,” she continues. “I literally grew up in a hospital, remember? I can handle this.”

Though Lexa’s puzzled face doesn’t ease up much, it seems to settle Anya down, at least. She straightens, nodding, and gives Clarke a look that — shockingly — almost resembles gratitude, with maybe just the tiniest sliver of respect tossed in to really screw with Clarke’s perceptions of the stage manager. 

“There’s a cleaning cart,” Anya says, pointing backstage and cutting her eyes to Lexa slowly. “In a storage room next to the stage right fire exit door. There are gloves and everything…um…”

“Got it,” Clarke says, moving off before either of them can stop her.

She finds the supplies easily, tucked neatly inside the door of the storage room. She even discovers an unexpected bottle of Quatcide among _Gonakru’s_ cache of cleaning products, but she should have probably seen that coming. This place runs watertight at every level; someone is always anticipating the details around here. Lexa wouldn’t allow anything less.

When she returns to the stage, she finds Lexa still there, facing out toward the house seats with her arms folded across her stomach. She doesn’t turn around at Clarke’s arrival.

“I meant it, you know,” Clarke says after a moment. Her voice is quiet, but it still echoes in here now without the presence of the rest of the company to cushion the sound. “I can totally handle this. You don’t have to wait with me.”

Lexa tucks her chin to her chest and begins to move toward Clarke. “No, I’m going to help. It’s my fault this happened, and I should —“

“Stop right there,” Clarke orders, her hands flying up in front of her.

Lexa freezes, blinking at her with wide, startled eyes.

“Absolutely not. If I can’t prevent you from staying, fine. But you’re sticking to that side of the stage, understood?”

Lexa seems so thrown by Clarke’s sudden display of bossy behavior that she can only nod wordlessly.

“I’m serious, Lexa.”

Lexa shoves her hands in her front pockets, the corner of her mouth barely ticking up. “Okay,” she says quietly, then takes an exaggerated step backwards, raising her eyebrows at Clarke like: _“See?”_

Clarke narrows her eyes and shakes her head, then turns away to get started on her unpleasant task. Even though it really doesn’t bother her _(god, she has seen some things working around the hospital, they don’t even know…)_ , she wants this to be over as quickly as possible for Lexa’s benefit. It’s knocked something out of alignment inside the director that’s making her eyes look too far away and too lost tonight. She’ll do whatever she damn well has to in order to call her back.

Silence blooms then, filling up the theater and weighing down the atmosphere around them. It’s nothing but the sounds of Clarke’s quick scrubbing, Lexa’s uneasy shuffling across the stage.

Finally, Clarke’s had enough. “This wasn’t your fault, by the way.”

Behind her, she hears Lexa stop moving. 

_Alright, she’s listening, at least. Good sign._ She pushes on. “I adore Jasper, but this is all on him, that little idiot. Not you.”

It takes a moment, but then: “I should have been paying closer attention.”

Clarke grins and shakes her head, a little braver with her expressions knowing Lexa can’t see them right now. _Of course she would say that._ “Nope. Still wrong. Jasper’s an adult. I mean, I can get where that may be difficult to remember sometimes, for sure, but…no. He made the choice. And I’m sorry he got hurt, too, don’t get me wrong. But you didn’t cause this, Lexa. Okay?”

A pause. “Maybe we can agree to disagree this time, then,” Lexa says quietly.

Smirking, Clarke arches an eyebrow at the stage floor beneath her. _So stubborn._ “Fair enough,” she concedes. Then she adds under her breath: “That’s kind of our whole goddamn theme, isn’t it?”

“What was that?”

Clarke blanches, grimacing. “Oh, um…nothing. Just…muttering to myself over here. I do that sometimes. Sorry.” _Just stop talking, Griffin. Talking bad._

The quiet stretches out again as Clarke finishes up, shoving everything into a garbage bag and keeping her body firmly planted between the clean up site and Lexa the whole time. She checks her work before walking off to dispose of it all. _Good. Can’t even tell it was there anymore._

She takes her time washing up over the industrial sink backstage, her wits returning to her more now that the adrenaline is beginning to wear off. She pulls her phone from her back pocket, glancing at the time. It’s Friday night in New York City, and she’s afraid the group at the hospital is probably in for a long wait at the ER to get Jasper stitched up. _With Indra and Anya there, though…well. Maybe not._

She sighs and stretches her arms over her head. _I should head home. Need to make sure everything’s ready for Maccarone tomorrow. I also need to find something to wear. Crap._

Clarke walks out of the wings, and notices Lexa hasn’t moved from her spot, but she’s sitting down now, legs dangling over the edge of the stage. The sight pulls a grin out of her before she can stop it. _I also need to make sure she goes home, too._

“Were you waiting for my all clear?” she asks.

Lexa turns her head, looking at Clarke over her shoulder. “No. Just…thinking.” She pauses, looking back out at the empty house seats. “Not that you weren’t intimidating earlier or anything.”

Clarke snickers and slowly glides closer to her, taking in the rows and rows of open space in front of them. _Three weeks from now, there will be actual people out there in those seats._ The thought causes both a thrill and a brief flash of panic inside her. _Christ. We’re getting close. Gotta get those lines memorized tonight, too._

She cuts a glance at Lexa. “Are you okay?”

Lexa dips her head, crossing her feet at the ankles and staring there for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is just as quiet, but heavier. “Someone’s told you about Costia, haven’t they?”

Clarke’s eyebrows fire up, and she swallows against her suddenly dry throat. She couldn’t have ever seen that one coming. Not like this. 

Lexa looks up, meeting Clarke’s surprised gaze head on. 

Finally, Clarke just takes a deep breath, and nods. “I hope you’re not angry,” she adds softly.

A sad smile catches at the corners of her mouth, and Lexa looks away again. “No, I’m not angry. I know the reason you were told was intended as a kindness on my behalf, no matter who it came from. They do it only to protect me. Not to hurt me.”

Clarke’s astonishment gives way, replaced by the familiar hushed anguish she’s been carrying around since that fateful night at _Tondisi._ She’s made a place inside herself to mourn for Lexa’s past, but she has to treat it delicately, handle it with absolute care. Keep her tethers close, in case she needs them. Because that much pain can overtake her much too fast if she lets it. She’s been swallowed up by the dark before; she’s learned how to be smarter about tending it now. 

She feels a wave of fatigue settling in, the last dregs of all the keyed-up energy she’s been running on this evening swiftly draining out of her. She sits down at the edge of stage, keeping a foot or two of space between them.

After a moment, she senses Lexa’s gaze on her again. “It’s the same reason you did all of this for me tonight.”

Clarke closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the soft wonder she hears in Lexa’s tone, the disbelief that Clarke would give her this, grant her grace in a moment when she needed it. Because Lexa should have… _God._ And here’s her truth, the thing she’s been harboring since it sprang up and clutched her by the heart, crying: _“This. This is a part of you now. Don’t deny it any longer…”_

She would draw down the sky for Lexa if she wanted it. And there is nothing, _nothing_ she could ask her to hold that Clarke wouldn’t bear for her. 

_I wish I could tell you. I wish I could just show you…_

_It’s so, so much more than that, Lexa._

And then…

Lexa’s hand closes over her own, resting against the stage floor.

Clarke’s eyes fly open to find Lexa beside her now, watching her. There’s so much apprehension in her expression, as if she’s afraid Clarke might reject her or even evaporate altogether, right in front of her. But she’s pushing through every terrifying moment of it, anyway, because she needs to say this. She needs Clarke to hear it.

“What you did…you honored her tonight, Clarke. And you honored me.” She squeezes Clarke’s hand gently, then pulls away, ducking her head and sliding over to put a few inches of space between them again. When she tucks her hair behind her ear, her hand is trembling, but her words don’t falter at all. “I’ll never forget this. Thank you.”

Clarke can only stare at her. Something has swelled inside her chest, something so blinding and bright she’s having trouble making sense of this moment, of Lexa _right there,_ real and wonderful, by her side. That cool hand she can still feel against her skin. An image lights behind her eyes, a stutter burst — the way her art always comes through — of a ribbonlike aurora snaking across the horizon. Of the word _miracle._ Of _332 synonyms for want, and none of them enough._

She pulls in a breath, then another. And says the only thing that can pierce through what’s happening inside her right now.

_“Always, Lexa.”_


	8. Landmine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Alright, ya'll. It's been a minute, but lemme explain...
> 
> This chapter was a _biiiiiiiish._ It just kept getting bigger and bigger and finally I was just, like: _"You know what? Carry on. I'm not even in control of this thing anymore. Just have at it..."_
> 
> So. I literally finished this about 20 minutes ago, and I'm unleashing this thing in all its unedited glory, because it has _bested_ me, and I can't stare at it a moment longer. I can admit defeat. I can.
> 
> Grab a snack, settle in, tip your wait staff, please return your tray tables to their upright and locked positions, and vaya con dios, mi amigas and amigos, because...damn. This is indulgent, even for me. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, and for sticking with me, and for being the most amazing humans I've ever run into online. You are loved, every last one of ya.
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Pearl and the Beard

********************

“So what I’m saying here is: None of us can tame art. Art just is, you feel me? Art just _is._ ”

Clarke rolls the stem of her wine glass between her fingers and nods thoughtfully. (She’s sure it can’t look anywhere near thoughtful, though, because — in reality — this guy has been droning on for almost nine solid minutes now, and she’s irritated and bored as _fuck._ )

“Yeah,” he continues, (and Clarke’s face falls because _stop nodding, you idiot, you’re just encouraging him…)_ “I just wish more people would understand that, you know? There’s this thing Picasso said…” 

_Oh, god. Nope. Officially tuning out now. Picasso was a misogynistic slime. Of course he would be quoting him…_

Clarke had been shoved into this whole one-sided conversation courtesy of the gallery owner, who had introduced this kid as the nephew of one of her: “most generous _(richest)_ supporters _(person who actually buys art and often throws gobs of cash her way)_ and she’s excited _(hates herself so much)_ to have him debut his fascinating _(awful…just awful)_ creations _(crassly constructed sculptures that are really nothing more than gross dick pics done in clay)_ with them tonight.” 

And then she’d promptly bailed, and left Clarke babysitting the douchey little son of a bitch. 

_Fuuuuuuck, he’s still talking…_

She looks him up and down again. He can’t be more than twenty, probably one of those trust fund nightmares who’s only doing this because it gets him laid every now and then, and he’s got plenty of bankroll and free time to keep the charade going for as long as it works. He’s put way more effort into his outfit than his _(ugh, it tastes too bad to let this word get anywhere near those sculptures)_ art: this garish mint green suit that most likely costs more than Clarke’s rent but looks like it could have crawled straight out of some drunk uncle’s 1979 prom pic, with a head full of shaggy _hipster-don’t-care_ curls spilling down his back and a pair of aviator sunglasses on because obviously the rest of his ensemble didn’t quite look skeevy enough.

She catches her own reflection in his stupid fucking sunglasses. _I look so miserable right now, how can he not see that? But at least my hair looks pretty good. I really like that new shampoo…_

“…and it’s like this huge machine, you know? We’re just stuffing things into this, like, machine every day and —“

Whatever taffy-thin string of patience she’s been clinging to finally gives. “Will you excuse me?” Clarke says, already walking away. “I see somebody I need to catch before they leave…”

And then she hurries around the corner and safely out of sight of the _thing who can’t possibly seem to get enough of his own goddamn voice._

 _Jesus._ She leans against the wall and drains the last of her wine, her eyes roving through the crowd. For a moment, she feels a small black cloud gather inside her as she watches the other attendees milling about the gallery, because she realizes she’s completely without backup here. Everyone she really knows in this city is currently eight blocks away and probably halfway through Act II by now.

She spies a flash of fluorescent pink near the bar. _Well, almost everyone, that is._

 _Annie’s here._

Clarke had met her a couple of weeks after she and Octavia landed in New York. She’d been invited to an exhibit in Chelsea by one of her East Coast contacts, a sort of _get-your-name-known-in-the-local-scene_ networking opportunity for Clarke, and Annie had been showing her work there with some other students from Parsons. 

Clarke was flying solo that night, too. O had just been hired at _Gonakru_ and was working insane hours, Clarke was too preoccupied with simply trying to figure out how to put herself back together again to worry about scrounging a plus one, and it was the first time she’d braved mingling with the art crowd she hoped to maybe join out here.

So when she spotted Annie smiling at her across the room, this adorable girl with the creamiest, most flawless complexion she’d ever seen, wearing a _totally 90’s-tomboy_ overalls / Doc Martens getup and sporting a messy pixie cut of shocking pink hair (“It’s called _‘Brazen Pink”_ , she’d told Clarke) — she headed right over. That hair had nothing on Annie’s smile; it snagged Clarke like a tow line.

As she stood there listening to Annie talk about her work, Clarke felt the girl’s optimism and sincerity just wrap around her, pull her in, brush away some of the acidic dust corroding her every thought or movement during those days. Annie was just so genuinely grateful to be making art, sharing it with others. Telling her truths even if her youth sometimes got in the way of really understanding them yet. It lifted something inside Clarke, eased the pressure a bit. Made it easier to take in air simply by standing next to her. They had talked all night.

Later, there was a doorway, a _grinning-so-big_ phone number exchange. 

Then there was a kiss. Followed by another. Then hands edging under hems, Annie’s fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Clarke pants, the tilt of Clarke’s hips against her thigh…

And when Annie shyly asked if she would like to go home with her, Clarke felt her bad old self push to the front, knocking aside all the doubt and sadness she’d been mired in for so long. _Put all that down, just for tonight. It will still be there tomorrow. Don’t think. Just be. Try to remember what it’s like to just be…_

Annie was lovely and sweet and so, so earnest, looking at Clarke exactly like she spoke about her art — open, guileless, and real. Meeting every press of Clarke’s mouth or slide of her hands readily, each sigh and moan and tremble-gasp saying it true and unafraid and right out loud: _I want you here…I want your fingers…I want…I want…I want…_

So Clarke had tried to answer all that honesty the only way she knew how. She tried to let go. 

The only problem was, she could only ever get there in the past by putting herself out of her mind first. By _shot-shot-smoke, pill._ By _sure, I’ll try that…_

Without that, the details slipped through. And lying there that night, kissing her way down Annie’s belly, she found she couldn’t shut out all the reminders that she was intruding on someone else’s space: Annie’s boxes of breakfast cereal on the kitchen counter, the _Wonder Woman_ socks poking out of the laundry basket nearby, the pictures of her friends, the Pho menu tacked to her fridge. The thousand little intimate things that made her remember she was in Annie’s _home_ , that this girl had invited her _in_ , given her _so much so fast so freely._

She shouldn’t get that. She should only get the turf she’s more familiar with — the borrowed, rented places. Hotels and back rooms and _right-here-will-do_ spots where nothing truly belongs, and nothing stays. She was better at being a passenger. _Hop on, get off, keep moving._

She didn’t deserve that kind of trust. She was still too rough, serrated all over; she could hurt something as soft as Annie much too easily.

So she brought the girl up and let her down again as gently as she could, feeling guilty the whole way. Gave quiet excuses to the _let me touch you, let me in_ she saw in Annie’s eyes afterward. 

_Next time…I have an early appointment…I promise, next time…I’ll call you…_

Clarke knew, though. She could never give Annie what she wanted. And she could never, _ever_ let her in — the girl would be lost inside of a maelstrom like Clarke. She would never make it back to the surface again.

So she didn’t call. Ignored all the texts that came through. And when Annie stopped sending them, she felt terrible, but still — selfishly — relieved. She couldn’t stand to bring down one more person. Not again. Not when she was fighting so hard to start over.

It was the last time Clarke had allowed someone that close. There’s only been a clumsy ambush of a kiss from her _MoMa_ date since, and she had shut that down the moment his unasked for lips skidded across hers.

She looks down at her empty glass. _Definitely need more wine, but…_

Her eyes slip back to the bar.

Annie’s grown out of her overalls phase, it seems, opting instead for something a bit more sophisticated — black trousers and a black button-down, quite similar in style to what Clarke’s wearing tonight, actually. (She’s picked up a thing or two from the _Gonakru_ bunch. Black implies substance. _When in doubt, just make ‘em believe you’re the heaviest soul in the room. People are less inclined to fuck with you that way.)_

Clarke noticed her while she was trapped in the _dick pic vortex_ near the stairwell earlier. Had seen Annie notice her right back, too, which is maybe why she lingered there so long, gaze fixed anywhere Annie wasn’t. She could tell the girl wanted to orchestrate some kind of run in with her, get her chance to unload what she’s been waiting over a year to say to Clarke if they ever crossed paths again. Maybe gloat about it with her friends later, how she _finally got to tell that stone cold bitch off._

_I owe her that much, at least._

But… _later._ The night is young, and she’s not sure which direction Annie’s revenge might turn. She doesn’t want to kick open that door too early in case things get really messy.

She frowns into her empty glass again, then heads off in the opposite direction.

****************

 _Maccarone mounts its exhibits well_ , Clarke notes as she meanders down the line of work on display. _Plenty of white space in here to let the art breathe. They don’t want anything to get in its way._

The exhibit runs the gamut from stunningly gorgeous to the outrageous and provocative, but it’s all high quality stuff, everywhere she looks. She’s humbled to be included in this lineup. Her three paintings are near the long, rectangular windows facing out toward the street, viewable to anyone passing by. It’s an even more generous compliment to have her work placed in this spot, especially since she’s a first time presenter at the gallery.

Clarke stands back and reviews her pieces, picking out things even now that she would like to improve, if she had the opportunity. Nothing she creates ever feels quite _there_ to her. There’s always something on second glance she’d like to change. _Add more color here, blend out that line._ And these are all older paintings, too, completed during her first few months in the city — her way to cope with all the adjustments of new surroundings, new normals. 

It’s so evident, staring at those pieces of her on the wall, how fractured she’d been back then. So many grey shades and lack of definition everywhere her eyes fall, as if she hadn’t been able to imagine anything strong enough to contain all that havoc. Like she maybe couldn’t even remember what lines _were_ at that point. Her thinking had gone too opaque for any of it to make sense to her anymore. 

She looks into them, and the only word she can come up with is _lost._

A couple of guests sidle up next to her, peering at Clarke’s work. An older man — mid-forties, she guesses — and a younger woman with enough sloped-shouldered, chronically sleep-deprived limpness to the way she holds herself Clarke immediately pegs her as a grad student. (Most of the grad students she’s known tend to have an almost _wanted fugitive_ quality about them, as desperate for a soft place to rest as they are to outspeed the stink of failure always nipping at their heels…)

The man, though…well, Clarke can spot his kind from forty paces away. An art critic. She doesn’t know him — no one showcased tonight is enough of a name to draw any of the most famed critics — but she sure knows his type. Self important and smug, eeling his way around the room with a permanent sneer while he scarfs up as much free tapas and wine as he can. _(Usually complaining about both, too, just for good measure.)_

His presence sets her hackles on high alert right away, and she moves down a few steps, pretending to look at another exhibit while they check out her work.

“What do you think of this?” the woman asks.

The critic stuffs a prawn in his mouth and leans closer, smacking as he chews, his eyes slip-sliding over Clarke’s painting. “Well…” he finally says, (in a cadence that sounds so much like _‘oh, you silly, ignorant peasant girl’_ that Clarke actually pulls a face before remembering she’s not supposed to be listening in on this conversation), “…There’s a fair amount of skill there. The colors are somewhat interesting. Overall, though, it’s just too…muddled. This an artist who doesn’t know what they want to say. Decent effort, but chances are, no one will ever remember this…” He peers at the info card beside her work. _“Clarke Griffin._ Nice try, but you’re too forgettable.” 

It hurts. 

She hates that it hurts, but…that’s _her_ up there, or at least some version of her, and this asshole just drove a hot spike right through something vital.

_Well fuck you, too. I hope you choke on that prawn._

They swipe left and continue down the line of exhibits, and Clarke just stands there, stung and sore.

_Alright. Take a minute, Griffin. Shake it off. He’s just one more fuck in a line of fucks who have knocked you down before. Don’t let him win._

She sighs hard and heads upstairs.

***************** 

Clarke finds herself on the fourth floor, in an open, high-ceilinged room that juts off from the main sections of the gallery. It’s been set up for a few of the large installation pieces on display, the exhibits that take up far too much floor space for the lower levels. There’s not as much traffic in this room, just a bartender pouring wine at a small satellite stand in the corner and a handful of other guests wandering between works. 

She’s also discovered a small terrace up here, an outdoor space the gallery probably uses for events during the milder seasons, she guesses. Gratefully, it’s a warmer evening; the frigid weather gripping the city lately seems to have called a cease fire for the time being, so Clarke refills her wine glass with the bartender and heads outside. It’s quiet and the crisp air feels good and she’s the only one here. It’s exactly what she needs right now.

She looks out at the city, at the rows of lighted windows stretching on and on in every direction. All those stories happening out there at this very moment, the spread of life spinning ever onward behind each pane of glass. 

In her mind, she hears her dad’s voice, something he would ask her nearly every weekend: _“It’s Saturday night in the big town, Clarke. Whatcha going to do to it, kid?”_ It used to make her laugh and roll her eyes when he’d say it, because it was just such a dorky dad thing. But he was always kind of a corny guy. He never cared when his tragically unhip ways would embarrass her. It just seemed to egg him on even more, most of the time.

Clarke misses him so much. He would have loved this tonight, too. Would have been so proud of her, unabashedly sticking out in this crowd but mixing with all the art snobs and intellectuals downstairs, anyway, because he just never gave a shit about decorum or trying to fit in. It simply wasn’t in him. He’d probably stand around all night laughing too loud, cracking bad jokes, telling anyone who passed by: _“See that? My daughter painted that. Isn’t she amazing?”_ Rejoicing every time he would manage to make Clarke hide her face behind her hands in mortification, that wide, toothy grin of his flashing. 

Even still…she’d kind of give anything at this moment to have him here. 

She scans the skyline again. 

_1.4 million people in this city, but it sure can make you feel alone sometimes._

Though she’s trying like hell to fight it off, something’s going dark inside her. She can feel the shadows curling in, intent on robbing her of the decent headspace she’d been in when she walked into the gallery tonight. At least she can recognize the early warning signs this round; she sometimes doesn’t realize how quickly she’s sliding until it’s too late.

She sighs and tilts her neck to the side, feels her joints realign with a satisfying twinge.

 _That critic may have been a bona fide asshole, but he wasn’t entirely off point about your work._

Clarke could see it herself, earlier — that void, the detachment she could read there. He really didn’t say anything she hasn’t thought about before. She’s spent most of her life feeling unmoored, separated from the people around her, so unsure about what parts of her are actual identity and what is only conformity, masquerading as her authentic self. 

How can she find where she belongs or what she wants to say when she’s still not certain if she even knows who she _is?_ She can pick up hints along the way, sure. Fling them onto canvas, siphon them out of characters, but at the end of it, she’s still left right here, looking around and wondering: _Who am I, really? What do I want? Am I ever, ever going to get there, or…?_

_God._

_Or…_

_Is this it?_

_Is this the best I can do?_

Behind her, Clarke hears the door swish open, the noise from inside the gallery spilling out onto the terrace and silencing again. _Well, so much for solitude._ Then another thought slams in right behind that one, seizing her up for a moment. _Annie._

_She’s found me, and I’m cornered out here._

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Shit._

_Suck it up, Griffin. You totally have this one coming. Might as well get it over with._

She takes a quick sip of wine, placing the glass on a nearby table. Then she braces herself, and turns.

And when she sees who is standing there, she’s so shocked she chokes. 

_Lexa?_

Lexa stands across the terrace, her hands shoved into her pockets, eyes wide and concerned as she watches Clarke splutter-cough. She takes a few steps forward. “Are you alright?”

Still coughing, Clarke nods and holds up a _‘wait a second’_ gesture while she recovers. When she finally gets herself under control, she wheezes: “What are you doing here?”

Lexa looks down and back up, shifting her weight nervously, then gives a faint grin. “Well, according to the person I just encountered on the stairs, I’m, uh…let me see: _‘just feeding the machine and I shouldn’t try so hard’,_ apparently.”

“Oh, I see you met the disaster with the aviators, then,” Clarke laughs, her voice a little huskier and strained now after her oh-so-graceful choking spell. She clears her throat and looks Lexa over again, her brain still reconciling the director’s sudden appearance here. “That kid has some damn opinions, doesn’t he?”

Lexa chuckles, relaxing some now that Clarke’s tone is leveling out. 

“Besides, I think the second part of that statement is actually impossible for you, so…”

At that, Lexa swallows a grin and gives Clarke a little double-take, as if she’s either pleasantly surprised at the observation, or its accuracy.

Then Clarke frowns. “Wait. Is something wrong? Is Octavia…?”

“No, everything’s just fine,” Lexa says, her hands erupting in a flurry of placating motions as she moves a bit closer. “No, I just…I wanted…” She pauses. “I didn’t know who would be here tonight, and I wanted to make sure you had a friendly face in the crowd, you know? In case…”

Clarke blinks at her, tangled up in most of what she’s just said. “But what about…? I mean, _how_ are you here, though? What about rehearsal?”

Lexa shrugs. “Indra’s finishing up. We moved some more of the set into place tonight, and she offered to run the cast through a few scenes to get used to everything so I could drop by before your show ended.”

She says it so casually, like it’s nothing, but…Lexa left rehearsal early. _Lexa. Left. Rehearsal._ Just to come to her show. Because she didn’t want Clarke to not have anyone here to support her.

Clarke is so stunned she can’t even figure out how to react. Her head is such a disorganized _mess_ right now, disbelief piled on top of elation on top of gratitude, all of it bundled up in this buzzing, warm feeling that’s just spilling over and over and over, it’s so full. 

Off Clarke’s silence, Lexa folds her arms and drifts farther out onto the terrace, turning her face skyward as she walks. “Um…it, uh…it looks like you’ve had a good turnout tonight,” she comments, still peering up as she nears Clarke. “I hope it’s been going well. It looked like —“

Clarke reaches out, her hand closing around Lexa’s arm. Lexa halts and looks over at her warily.

“Thank you,” Clarke breathes. And she hopes Lexa can see it, what this means to her, how it arrived at exactly the right time tonight. She wants her to know.

Lexa smiles. And it’s so, so beautiful. “Of course,” she replies quietly.

They look at each other a moment more, then Clarke draws back, moving away to a safer distance. There’s way too much going on inside her right now, and it’s making her consider doing things that are definitely not wise. She takes a breath and ducks her head, tries to resettle. 

“So, you’ve had a good night?” Lexa continues, picking up the thread.

“Um, yeah, I guess. It’s been —“ Clarke looks up, and suddenly spots a whole lot of _brazen pink_ trouble over Lexa’s shoulder. She freezes.

Lexa’s brow furrows. She follows the trajectory of Clarke’s wide-eyed stare to glance behind her at Annie, who is now only fifteen feet away and strolling around the gallery inside, appearing as if she _just might_ be looking for someone.

She turns back. “Do you know that girl?”

_Fuuuuck._

_This totally figures, though, doesn’t it? Sometimes your luck just boggles the goddamn mind…_

Clarke sighs, cutting her eyes at Lexa uneasily. 

Lexa waits, her eyebrows inching higher with every passing second. 

Finally, she just spits it out. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Whatever is on her face right now seems to clue Lexa in well enough. 

Clarke sees the moment recognition dawns in her eyes, the way she pulls up, rolling her shoulders back. The thrown-off twitch that crosses her expression. “Oh. I see.” She checks out Annie again, then returns to Clarke. “And I take it this wouldn’t be a happy reunion for you?”

“Definitely not.”

Lexa nods, lips pursed as she mulls this over. “In that case, come on…” She steps forward and grasps Clarke gently by the elbow, leading her away from the door and over to the far corner of the terrace. 

Clarke can only mutely follow along, her eyes on Lexa’s profile the whole way. _How is this even happening to me? I mean, seriously…_

Lexa brings them to the high outer wall of the terrace, leaning against the railing and keeping herself between Clarke and the door, shielding her from view as best as she can.

There’s a pause where they both just stand there, staring out at the city in silence. 

_Maybe I could catch a break and some kind of black hole could rip open in front of me and just devour me whole, get me out of this shitstorm. Jesus, Dad, I hope you’re seeing this, because you would so be cracking up right about now…_

She peeks around Lexa and sees Annie heading back toward the stairs now, wearing a disappointed frown. _Oh, thank god._

Lexa glances over as well, watching Annie make her way across the room. Once it looks like they’re in the clear, she quietly says: “She’s very…”

Clarke huffs. “Young. I know.”

Lexa looks forward again, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t judge me,” Clarke adds, fighting a wobbly grin herself as she tries to scrape up any kind of defense that might make this whole thing slightly less awful. “There was only a four year age difference, okay? I swear I’m not pervy. Nor do I make it a habit of swooping in on impressionable art students. It was a…departure for me. Trust me.”

Lexa’s outright _giggling_ now, and after a second, Clarke can’t help but join her, because this is just _so awkward_ , and she can’t possibly save face here, so… _might as fucking well, right?_ Part of her is still reeling though, unable to believe that she’s actually having this conversation with _Lexa, for Christ’s sake._ It seems so surreal.

After a moment, Lexa sobers, but her gears are still turning. Clarke can see she wants to say something else.

“What is it?” Clarke prompts.

Lexa shakes her head. “No, it’s just…” She swallows, folding her hands together against the railing. “I’ve just noticed you and Niylah seem to be…”

 _Nope. I was wrong before. THIS is just so surreal._

Clarke hesitates, which causes Lexa to backpedal fast. “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business…”

“Niylah is a lovely person,” she finds herself blurting, eager to get this out of the way. “And a friend. But that’s as far as that goes.”

Lexa just nods, the silence stretching out between them again.

Clarke peers out over the railing. She can detect her previous dark mood trying to slink back now that the crisis moment has passed, and this strangeness has sprung up in its wake. _What in the living hell._

Because _this_ …this is just one more area in her life where she feels so hopelessly adrift sometimes, no matter what she tries. The _two steps forward, ten steps back_ flight path of whatever she and Lexa are. They’re _something_ , she knows that much. 

She can tell Lexa does, too. It’s been hovering over them both these past weeks, building like a storm front. 

For Clarke, it’s been _interest_ shoved against _recognition_ stacked on top of _knowing_ , leaning harder and harder until now she just feels tender all over, unable to alleviate the weight holding her down. It’s as if she’s a bruise that cannot surface, or heal. All her lingering doubts and fears simply won’t let it show. 

And for Lexa? It’s in all the ways she’s been letting her see she’s slowly closing the perimeter between them. The second glances and laughs and steady, quiet encouragement. The teasing. The _‘getting-to-know-you’_ questions peppered amid work talk. It’s Lexa daring to allow Clarke inside the bleak, heartbreaking parts, too, to open the door a little wider, as if she were saying: _“There. We can acknowledge this. I believe you’ll keep it safe.”_ Trusting her. 

It’s Lexa’s hand on Clarke’s shoulder as she explains a scene change, the fingertips brushing against Clarke’s waist as Lexa squeezes past her in the hall. The time-stop moment yesterday _(Jesus, how could that have only been just yesterday?)_ when Lexa was right there, right up against her, looking so baffled and caught out and Clarke could — for once — read exactly what she was thinking: _What are you doing to me?_

It’s Lexa showing up here tonight, trying to act so nonchalant about it even though Clarke knows she probably left a hundred things hanging back at the theater in order to make it by. Despite her unfailing sense of loyalty and the fact that she’s probably the kindest soul Clarke has ever met, she is almost certain Lexa wouldn’t be standing beside her right now if they weren’t _something._

All those gathered moments and reasons, each one hounding at Clarke to _keep trying, keep chasing, don’t give up._ She’s afraid of pushing too hard, but she can’t possibly retreat.

Because she also understands what it would do to _her_ if she tried to let it go now. It terrifies Clarke as much as it exhilarates her to admit this, but…Lexa has shifted the gravitational sway of every confused and confusing thing inside her. She’d tilt right off of her axis if all that opposing force just suddenly disappeared. Fly off into the black.

She catches Lexa watching her sometimes, and simply knows — in that same unrelenting way she’s always known certain things about the director — she feels this, too. 

But what’s still tripping her up, what she can’t quite figure out clearly enough to loosen the chains she’s placed around her feelings for Lexa…

_Is this what Lexa wants?_

_And is all this drag-lift-flip-drop momentum when we’re near each other as strong for her?_

The silence has grown a shade past comfortable by this point, so Clarke tries to force something out to get them talking again, but she’s coming up empty.

Lexa handles it for her. “Are you okay?”

_Well. That’s not exactly a simple place to start from right now._

“Yeah, um…” Clarke says, narrowing her eyes and tucking her chin down. “I just have some things on my mind. I had a kind of run in with a critic earlier. He sort of knocked the wind out of my sails a little.”

“What did he say?” Lexa asks. She’s looking over now, and there’s a layer of protectiveness in her voice that snags on something inside Clarke’s chest. 

“That my work lacks direction, essentially,” Clarke answers, raising up again and shrugging. “Kind of led me to start thinking about where I am, where I’ve been.” She meets Lexa’s gaze, smiling gently. “You know, your standard identity crisis stuff.”

Lexa pushes off of the railing, turning around and putting her back to the wall as she examines what Clarke’s said. 

“And I can usually take hits like that and get past them, you know?” Clarke continues, her eyes moving over Lexa next to her, taking in the line of her jaw, the loose curls flowing over her shoulders. She’s wearing a dark blazer that’s cut lean and flatters her shape well, some kind of soft knit that felt almost like suede beneath Clarke’s hand earlier. “But it was just a bit harsh and it kind of rattled me, I guess.” She pauses, her voice growing raspier as the sting creeps back in. “He called me forgettable.”

Something angry passes across Lexa’s face. She remains quiet for a moment, then says in a low tone: “I can’t tell you how many critics have bashed my work.”

“Really? I have trouble believing that,” Clarke replies, propping her chin on her fist.

“Really. But, you know…?” She squints into the distance as she gathers her thoughts. “One thing I’ve realized…it’s a profession that can attract a certain type. Those who are too cynical to really connect with anything. They’re too closed off.” She folds her arms, glancing over her shoulder at Clarke before settling on a spot farther away. “Why would I listen to the opinion of someone who won’t allow themselves to actually experience what they’re reviewing? How can they possibly understand anything if they won’t be _open_ to anything?”

Clarke sweeps her eyes back toward the city again, smiling. “I think that’s a very eloquent way to deal with bad reviews, Lexa. To just say: _Not listening. You just don’t get it, assface.”_

Lexa laughs softly, shaking her head. “I saw your exhibit, you know.”

“Yeah?” Clarke says, shifting toward her.

Lexa nods, keeping her head turned away. “Your work is beautiful, Clarke. Whatever that man thought he saw there…I can assure you, he was very, very wrong.”

Clarke looks down, taking in a deep breath. “Thank you. That…that means a lot to me,” she finally responds.

“And I want you to know something.”

Clarke glances back up. Finds Lexa watching.

“At rehearsal tonight,” she begins. “It felt so different without you there. I noticed it the moment we got started. Things just didn’t sync up like they normally do, the pieces wouldn’t line up.” She smiles, shifting against the wall and looking across the terrace, at the people inside the gallery. “And I couldn’t really quite pin it down until I called a quick break and saw how much more… _reserved_ the other actors seemed with each other. Everyone was still friendly, nothing like that. It was just…it was as if they lacked that spark, that thing that makes all of you flow so well and work together so wonderfully. And then it hit me…”

She looks at Clarke, her mouth curved into a delicate smile. “It was you. You’re the one who’s always pulling them together. Checking in, asking how everyone’s doing, joking with everyone. You’re the thread. And without you there, it just felt…sort of like everyone simply couldn’t get their magic to work.” Her eyes dart over Clarke’s face, something flickering behind them that has Clarke’s pulse suddenly accelerating, because it almost looks like she wants to…

Lexa inhales sharply, lifting her gaze skyward before turning back to Clarke. 

Whatever was there before has quieted again. “You are far more of a presence than you know.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “And you are most certainly unforgettable, Clarke.”

They are so close right now. Lexa’s luminous eyes on her, the soft shape of her lips…Clarke looks at her and just _hurts._ She wants to reach for her, pull her close, hold onto her with everything she has. Because beauty like that needs to be held. That’s the only way to comprehend it. It seems too impossible, otherwise.

Every awed, overwhelmed thought she’s having at this moment must reveal itself, and it must trigger some kind of alarm in Lexa, too, because she suddenly raises up, stuffing her hands in her pockets and turning her face to the stars. She steps away, easing some distance between them.

Clarke takes a deep breath. Her stomach is cartwheeling and she can still hear her own blood pounding in her ears, and she just doesn’t know how much more she can take tonight, honestly. At this rate, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if her mom came busting through the wall like the goddamn _Kool-Aid man_ waving a stack of sensible job listings in one hand and the online dating profile of some eligible, _studious young man_ she wants Clarke to meet in the other. _Fuck._

“When I was a child, I got to visit the _Hayden Planetarium_ once,” Lexa says, walking in an aimless, circular pattern around the terrace as she stares up at the sky. “Over at the _Natural History Museum?_ I remember being so astounded. I couldn’t believe all of this had been happening up there my whole life, and I had no clue whatsoever. It’s rare for a city kid to see the stars. I sort of felt like I’d been duped.”

From her spot against the wall, an admiring smile spreads across her face as Clarke watches Lexa mosey back and forth. “ _Duped?_ You know you’re just about the only person under the age of, like, _eighty_ that I’ve ever heard use that word in real life, right?”

Lexa scrunches up her nose and laughs quietly, flicking a glance at Clarke before she looks away. She seems like she’s checking the temperature between them.

So Clarke tries to relax. _Diffuse mode engaged._ She looks up, her eyes picking out the brightest stars still peeking through, despite the interference of city lights. _Rigel…Bellatrix…Betelgeuse…Orion…_ She laughs softly. “My dad was obsessed with space. He used to take me up on the roof with him to look at the stars, had a telescope and everything. Like, totally serious about it, you know? He’s 90% responsible for me becoming the huge nerd I am today. Comic books, sci-fi, fantasy novels, all that…totally my dad’s fault.”

Lexa is watching her, a small smile forming. Clarke smiles back, leaning into the railing and resting her head on her arms before peering up again. 

“He tried so hard to get me into star mapping with him,” Clarke continues. “All those graphs and constellation charts, latitude _this,_ longitude _that_ …god, it was so damn dull. He would get so frustrated with me, because I did not care in the _least._ I just wanted to look at the pretty light show.”

“Do you have a favorite constellation?” Lexa asks.

“Sort of,” Clarke says after a moment, shaking herself out of her memories. “But, um…it’s not a constellation. It’s a galaxy.”

“Yeah?”

Clarke raises up, pointing east. “Yeah. Andromeda,” she replies. 

Lexa turns, trying to locate it.

“It’s way too bright out to see it from here, but it’s our sister galaxy. It’s actually on a collision course with the Milky Way, hurtling toward us even as we speak. When it finally crashes into us, it will end everything.” 

Lexa looks back over at Clarke, staring at her with a mixture of dismay and slight panic in her eyes. “I hope that’s not supposed to happen anytime soon, right?”

“No, we’re good,” Clarke laughs. “We’ve got about 4 billion years or so before it gets here.”

Lexa nods, casting another glance eastward. Her gaze seems a bit more suspicious now after Clarke’s revelation.

Clarke laughs again. “Seriously, we’re fine. Come on, you’re talking to a former _Sky Girl_ here, remember? I’m practically an expert.”

At that, Lexa ducks her head, snickering as she nods. “Right. Of course. My mistake.” She pauses, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her trousers and looking out over the city. “It’s an aptly named galaxy, then. The gods chained Andromeda to a rock and left her to be eaten by a sea monster. They couldn’t expect her retaliation would be anything less than brutal.”

“Yeah, I’d say she has good cause to be pissed,” Clarke says with a grin.

There’s a lull then, but it feels more comfortable than the one they had been left in before. It seems like they’re leveling out some, getting more used to being out here together, and Clarke’s glad for it. This is the most uninterrupted time she’s ever spent in Lexa’s company, which is a staggering thought, considering how high and hard her emotions run in the director’s presence. _You never had a chance of shutting this off, Griffin. Lexa has had you flipped upside down since you first laid eyes on her…_

Clarke lets the quiet rest for a few moments more before she stretches and shifts toward Lexa, saying: “I haven’t been to the _Natural History Museum_ yet.”

“You should definitely go. I could spend hours and hours there. I’ve only been back a few times since —“ She stops, and despite all the space separating them right now, Clarke can tell no matter where that sentence was heading, it’s a spot where someone in Lexa’s past has gone missing. “Well, it’s just been a while,” she finishes, shrugging faintly.

Lexa wanders farther away, tipping her head back to study all the twinkling stars sprawled above them, and Clarke studies Lexa. There’s such a serenity to her, how she’s just standing there admiring the night sky. Something so accepting and unflinching about it, even if whatever she’s thinking about may be painful. 

Clarke’s noticed it before. Lexa is never truly still; she’s always fidgeting, always on the move, inside and out. And she can get so wonderfully worked up sometimes it’s like she could generate electricity. But beneath it all, she still seems _settled._ Purposeful. Even if, at moments, she has to shrug on a little swagger to overcome her introverted ways, she knows exactly where she’s headed, why she does what she does, and regardless of what charges over the hill at her, she’s got it _handled_ , so don’t even worry. It’s so easy to believe in her.

Clarke’s next thought is out of her mouth before she can stop it. “How do you do it?” she asks softly.

Lexa turns to her, eyebrows raised.

Clarke blinks some of the wonder out of her expression and stands up taller. “Um, I mean…How do you…?” She refocuses, shaking her head. There’s been so little that’s gone the way she imagined it would tonight. She doesn’t want to get this wrong, too. It’s too fragile to be clumsy with. But she can’t seem to find the words.

“It’s okay,” Lexa assures her, tilting her head. She takes a few steps toward Clarke. “Whatever it is, it’s okay to ask.” Said with that same peaceful, resolute quality. She actually means it. 

Clarke exhales. “It’s just…there’s so much of just, you know…you in _Break Slow_. You seem so…unafraid, like you’re so sure about putting it out there like that. I don’t think I could…” She trails off, staring at Lexa helplessly. “I mean, that critic…” Without even intending to, Clarke pushes off the wall, moving toward her. Something in Lexa is always calling her closer, it seems. Standing this far apart simply feels too wrong, especially if they are having this conversation. “I know I hide behind my art. I do. I drive sideways at tough things in my work, you know? But you…you’re just head on with them. I just…I don’t know how you do that.” Her voice sounds so small.

Lexa regards her for a moment. “I think it’s…well, every experience we have, the good and the…” She lowers her gaze. “The harder times.” She pauses, pushing her shoulders back as she looks at the ground at her feet. “Even the hardest times. They…shape us. They’ve shaped _me_ into who and what I am today. I face it because it’s a part of me, too. In the end, I think we all find out that we belong to our scars as much as the things that have brought us joy in this life.” Her eyes finally find Clarke. “Some of us just carry more of them than others.” 

_God. How are you even real?_ Clarke pauses where she’s at and just _stares_ at her. 

“You shouldn’t be afraid to let that show,” Lexa continues, her gaze sharpening. “You’ve earned that right. You’ve made it through, you’re still here to tell your story. There’s no reason to hide.”

“What made you decide that now was the time to…? I mean, I just don’t know how to…like, I don’t think I know what’s still holding me back, I guess,” Clarke says, dropping her eyes.

She can hear Lexa scuff her booted foot against the terrace as she formulates a response. Then, quietly: “That’s the real power of our stories, Clarke. We own them. We decide when and how we choose to tell them. When you’re ready, they’ll still be there.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right,” Clarke finally says, chewing her bottom lip as she lifts up and stares across the terrace.

“And as for _Break Slow_ ,” Lexa adds. “Is it okay if, for now, I just say that I simply knew this was the right time for me?”

Clarke looks over at her and nods. “Of course.”

“I also had to wait until I could find the right people to tell it well.”

They smile at one another for a moment before Clarke hugs her arms around her middle and turns away to look out at the city, absorbing Lexa’s words.

Lexa isn’t quite finished yet. “It will happen for you, too. You’ll figure out how to quiet that instinct to hide. And when you do…well, maybe then it will be easier for you to not believe it when someone criticizes you. Unfairly, I might add,” she says, drifting to within a few feet of Clarke. “Maybe you could even start forgiving yourself for where you’ve been in the past, and who you were. Maybe it would make the answer to where you are and who you are now a little clearer.”

Lexa’s tone is so devastatingly reassuring that Clarke can feel tears rising up, and she blinks them away, rubbing a hand over her eyes. When she gets herself under control again, she slides her gaze over to Lexa, and finds her watching with a gentle, understanding smile. It almost sets her crying again.

She exhales heavily. “Maybe,” she finally says. Her lips twitch as she inclines her head toward the gallery. “Departures aside.” Because she knows she probably won’t escape some kind of reckoning about that before the evening ends. Annie seems too determined to make it happen, and — deep down — Clarke feels like she maybe needs that, too, if she’s ever going to be able to let go of her guilt. She’s just still a little horrified that Lexa might see it all unfold now. 

Lexa’s smile widens slightly. “Even that. I know that you wouldn’t deliberately hurt someone if you could prevent it.”

She sounds so _sure._ It provokes an instant, honest response in Clarke. “Not anymore, at least.”

Lexa’s answer is just as immediate. “Probably not even before.” She approaches Clarke slowly, stepping into place beside her, eyes on the skyline. “Maybe one day…” She hesitates, then looks over her shoulder at Clarke. “I’ll get you to see what I have since we met.”

Clarke turns, her heart skittering into her throat at the way Lexa is watching her, the intensity of her expression. She wonders if it will ever not overwhelm her so much, being this close to her. If there will ever be a time when she can look into Lexa’s eyes, and not feel so upturned and dizzy. 

“You’re a good person, Clarke.”

She’s smiling. She’s smiling, and she’s stunning and Clarke feels something sever its links and slip free within her, and she’s leaning in before she even realizes what she’s doing…

“Excuse me, Ms. Griffin?”

Wild-eyed, Clarke whirls toward the noise, spying the gallery owner’s assistant across the terrace. She’d been so wrapped up in Lexa she hadn’t even heard the door open. 

The assistant backs up, her eyebrows rising at whatever Clarke’s face is screaming at her right now. 

_I must look like an absolute lunatic. A very pissed off lunatic, at that._

“Y-yes?” Clarke stammers, and hates how breathy and high her voice sounds.

“I’m sorry, but there’s someone downstairs who is interested in buying one of your pieces, and he wondered if he could speak with you,” the assistant explains.

Clarke continues to stare at her, the assistant’s words slow to solidify in her brain. She’s still too spun up at the moment to switch gears very quickly. “Right. Yeah, um…” She raises up, rubbing the back of her neck absently. “I’ll be right in.”

She waits until the door closes behind the assistant, then finally allows herself to check in with Lexa again. She’s afraid she’ll find that same maddening, walled-up expression she’s grown so accustomed to looking back at her when she glances over, but — instead — Lexa seems… _amused?_ Her smile has curled down into a smirk, and her eyes are glittering.

“See? A potential buyer,” Lexa drawls. “I told you that critic was wrong.”

Despite still feeling frazzled and — _Christ, the most disappointed she’s ever been about a possible art sale, that’s for sure_ — Clarke grins at Lexa, shaking her head. “Was that…? Lexa Woods, was that…a tiny bit of _sass_ you just threw at me there?” 

Lexa laughs, placing her hands on her hips, phasers still fully set on _“smirk”_ at Clarke’s taunting. “I’m capable of it,” she lobs back.

Clarke begins to back toward the door, her gaze still locked with Lexa’s. “Well, this night just got so much more interesting, now that I know that. Consider yourself warned…” And then she spins on her heel and saunters toward the door, and she just can’t help but put a little extra _oomph_ in the sway of her hips, knowing those gorgeous eyes are still on her.

When she reaches the door, she turns back, and… _yeah._ Lexa seems to have noticed, judging by how quickly her stare darts up from the decidedly lower regions where it had traveled. Clarke’s belly drops so hard her fists clench at the sensation, but she somehow manages to hold it together and keep her expression in check. 

She points her thumb over her shoulder. _(And tries to ignore how badly her hand is shaking.)_ “Would you like to go watch me take on the uppity masses in there? I’m telling you, it’s probably one of the best performances you’re ever going to see me give. This crowd loves it when you can turn on the flowery, pompous art speak like I can.”

Lexa is already moving toward her, one eyebrow quirked in an elegant arch. “Flowery _and_ pompous, you say? That’s going to take something remarkably convincing for me to believe, Clarke. You’re really going to have to sell it.”

When she reaches her, Lexa leans over Clarke to push open the door for her, a move that has them passing within inches of each other. And it’s almost laughable how easily Clarke’s moment of flirty, _game on_ boldness gets annihilated the instant Lexa’s incredible sandalwood scent closes in around her. _(It also makes it that much harder to pull off the whole ‘confident artist’ persona when she’s blushing this fiercely.)_

“I’m totally serious, here,” Clarke replies as she steps back inside the gallery, her voice gone raspy once again. “You might even hear me say something like _‘conceptualize’_ or _‘universality’_ before the night is out.” She leads them toward the stairs. “Prepare yourself, Lexa. Prepare yourself to be dazzled…” she says, glancing at Lexa over her shoulder and grinning.

As they descend the stairs, Clarke sees something cross over Lexa’s expression that makes her think that maybe… _just maybe_ …she already is. 

***************

When they arrive at Clarke’s exhibit, she’s shocked to discover that two of her paintings have already sold, tagged with orange-colored markers to indicate they have been purchased.

Upon seeing this, Lexa doesn’t even tease her about it. Instead she flashes a wide smile at Clarke and nods proudly, as if she’s not surprised at all. Something flutters in Clarke at the sight of it.

While she speaks to the buyer, Lexa mingles with some of the other guests nearby. She’s recognized in this crowd, and knows several people here. _Gonakru’s_ reputation blends well with this group; these are her donors and supporters, too.

 

Clarke concludes her business, making surreptitious faces at Lexa, who stands off to the side the whole time holding up her fingers behind the buyer’s back, as if she were scoring Clarke’s responses. She doesn’t know how she managed to not crack up right in the man’s face and give them both away, but she held it together and must have been convincing as _hell_ , too, because he bought her work for $1,000 more than she’d originally priced it.

It’s a bit astounding to observe Lexa outside of her theater, how she can seem so much the same person Clarke has come to know and so different, too, all at once. Bouncing between serious professionalism as she discusses some of the works she would like to include on next season’s schedule at _Gonakru_ with one of her donors, to snickering alongside Clarke as they wander through some of the other exhibits, Clarke sharing her stories about the absurdly weird artists she’s met over the years. For tonight, Lexa is free of the string of responsibilities that always follows her around inside the theater, the things that draw her away or interrupt them when they’ve had these kinds of moments before. 

He’s been on her mind all night, so Clarke’s not all that taken aback when she finds herself telling Lexa about her dad, how he supported her interest in art from the beginning, which drove her mom crazy. That he was the only reason she was allowed to pursue this, and how her rift with her mom was bound to happen once he was taken out of the family equation. _(“We’ve been too different since I was practically an infant. We’re just never going to understand each other, and I think I’m finally realizing that’s okay.”)_

And Lexa just listens. To all of it. She stays entirely tuned in with Clarke all evening, wherever she wants to take them, whether they’re laughing and trading quips or talking about far heavier subjects, she’s right there. It’s something Clarke has never really imagined she’d get with Lexa, and now that she knows what it’s like, it just drives home the certainty that she’s flown right past the point of no return with this thing between them. It’s either forward, or nothing at all. And she’s also undeniably sure that soon…they’re going to have to talk. This is…she can’t hide from this, not anymore. 

But not tonight. Because she just wants to live in this place tonight, wants to savor these precious few hours with Lexa beside her, both of them shutting out the details that should be deterring them from standing so close together, from Lexa placing her hand along Clarke’s back as they maneuver through the crowd. From the way Clarke’s eyes keep getting drawn down to Lexa’s mouth as she talks, and how Lexa keeps noticing, but just smiles and keeps on going, her eyes glinting with something new and knowing. 

Before they leave, Clarke summons her courage, and seeks out Annie. Thankfully, Lexa is engaged in a conversation with one of the other artists when it happens, and doesn’t see it go down. But it turns out to not be as bad as she was expecting. Clarke apologizes more than once, and Annie is far more gracious about it than she should be. She can tell she’s still hurt, but it seems like it maybe helped soothe the burn a bit. That’s all Clarke wanted, really. For as much as she didn’t think she deserved the girl’s trust back then, Annie didn’t deserve someone like Clarke happening to her. She just wants Annie to know that.

****************

They decide to walk. Naturally, Lexa has to head back to the theater, because she has work to finish, but she doesn’t seem like she’s in a hurry to get to it. Clarke suspects she’s maybe enjoying this detour just as much, since she’s the one who turned down Clarke’s offer of grabbing a cab. 

Before they reach the theater, Lexa surprises her one more time. She tells Clarke about her parents. About Indra taking her in, and starting her on the road that led to _Gonakru._ Even if the information isn’t new, the faith Lexa’s admission places in front of her definitely is. _I’m giving this to you. I trust you’ll guard it well._ It’s such a profound moment of letting her in that Clarke goes the tiniest bit breathless when it happens. 

“I don’t remember them very well,” Lexa says, her gaze skimming across the store fronts they are passing. “I was only seven when they died. I went to school one morning, their train derailed as they were heading to work, and by that evening…I was an orphan. I remember some parts, and I remember always feeling safe and cared for with them, but not much more.”

Clarke looks at her. She doesn’t quite know how Lexa will take this, but she kind of needs to ask, anyway. Because Lexa’s answer will determine if this is a topic she should steer them away from quickly, or if it might be okay to stay here a little longer. “Growing up in the system like that, was there ever a time…when you _didn’t_ feel so safe and cared for?” She’s forced herself to ask, but she’s still apprehensive about what Lexa’s going to say. Because the idea of someone hurting a smaller, more vulnerable version of this woman is enough to make Clarke consider going full rogue and embarking on a streak of vigilante justice like she was _The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo_ or something.

“No, I was lucky.” She’s quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “I’ve known some who weren’t. But I feel very fortunate for having landed in the places I did, with the people I did. Like I said, it all shaped me. Indra alone has shifted the balance of my entire life in ways I never imagined it would turn.”

They turn onto the block where _Gonakru_ is located. It’s late, rehearsal has been over for almost two hours now, and the building is darker than Clarke’s ever seen it. Still, Anya’s left a few lights on. She probably knew Lexa would come back, even if she hadn’t been told. It’s just what Lexa does. 

As they near the theater doors, Clarke slows to say her goodnights, but Lexa keeps moving. She gets a few steps away before she turns back.

Puzzled, Clarke points at the door. “Aren’t you staying…? I thought you said…”

“Yeah, I still have some things to do, but…” Lexa pauses, ducking her head and fidgeting with a button on her jacket. “I wanted to walk you home, if that’s alright.” 

_And there she is_ , Clarke thinks. _Shy Lexa has returned. I wondered when she’d show up._

It’s easy to guess why, though. They are literally standing in front of the reason they ever met in the first place. Where Lexa is the _boss_ , and Clarke works for her. At least at the moment. Maybe they can pretend for a few hours, outside of the shadow of this building, but those are the solid, inexorable facts. They’ll be as true tomorrow as they are tonight, and they both know it. 

This is the element that still won’t fit, no matter what angle they approach it.

Despite the change in her demeanor, or even the depressing reminder that all of the fleeting recklessness they’ve indulged in this evening will be ending soon, Clarke finds herself grinning, anyway. 

Because she adores every variation of Lexa she gets to see — from the take charge leader who makes her believe she could bend the physical laws of this world if she needed to in order to accomplish something, to the girl who has such deep, terrible scars and still struggles with them, to the quiet observer who gets so beautifully flustered when Clarke makes her nervous, to this latest arrival…the suave, flirty charmer who teases and takes risks and likes to touch her sometimes, leaving goosebumps on Clarke everywhere she does. 

Each instance she uncovers another side of Lexa, or Lexa offers one, Clarke feels this peculiar… _twinge._ Way, way down, in the very foundations of her. It’s familiar, and it comforts her and thrills her and scares her a little, all at once, but it’s almost like she’s…not as much _discovering_ these things about Lexa, but _remembering_ them. Like maybe they’ve been waiting for her to figure it out, catch up. Like she maybe never had a shot at ignoring this, the first moment those green eyes found hers. 

And that maybe…the strength of all these feelings running rampant through her really shouldn’t surprise her at all. 

So she just grins at Lexa, and motions to the sidewalk ahead, and nods. “Of course it’s alright,” Clarke says, falling into place beside her as they continue on.

They walk a few paces before Clarke turns to her. “But who’s going to walk you home?” She pauses. “Wait. Before you answer that. Real question…do you actually live at the theater? Because I’ve never seen you arrive or leave before, and that’s kind of suspect…”

Lexa smiles. “No, I have a place a few blocks from here. I don’t see it often, but I do have another address besides _Gonakru_ , I swear.”

Clarke purses her lips and narrows her eyes. “Hmm. You realize someday I’m going to need proof of that, right?”

And then she hears what that sounds like. Her eyes widen slightly. _Crap._ “I mean…”

Lexa actually throws her head back and laughs, which washes away Clarke’s _foot-in-mouth_ anxiety just like that. She loves the way Lexa laughs. 

Lexa looks over her shoulder at Clarke, and… _good god_ , her eyes drop down to glance at Clarke’s lips before she faces forward again. “I think we could probably make that happen,” she says softly, with just enough of a sly undertone that Clarke’s heart thumps _rabbit-quick_ when she catches it. “Someday.”

Then something seems to occur to her, and her expression shuts down as abruptly as kicking sand over a fire. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, drawing her shoulders up and her gaze down. 

Clarke can’t parse any possible reason for the sudden change. “Are you okay?” she ventures.

Nodding, Lexa attempts a smile when she glances up at Clarke, but it never quite appears. “Yeah, I just…I just remembered something I need to get done, that’s all. Sorry.”

Clarke watches her, a wrinkle crossing her brow. _That’s not what’s really bothering her._ But Lexa doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, whatever it is, so she tries another subject. “So what are you going to be doing in L.A.?”

That just seems to make it worse. Lexa’s face crumples before she smoothes it out again. “Um…I just have a couple meetings with Gus. He’s helping me set up a project I’m going to be working on soon.”

“Yeah? Something exciting?” Clarke’s grasping at anything that might brighten the gloom that she can see settling over Lexa.

“Not really exciting, no,” she replies, careful with her words. “It’s just…necessary. Right now, anyway.”

“Ah. That’s the Hollywood glamour I remember,” Clarke says, deadpan. _“Not exciting, just necessary._ Yup. Sounds about right.”

And that finally gets a grin. It’s small, but it’s there. She can work with that.

They walk in silence for a few steps.

“Now back to my first question,” Clarke prompts. “You’re walking me home, but who’s going to make sure _you_ get back safely? I see a problem with this arrangement.”

Lexa looks over, her eyes warming up again. “It’s not a problem at all,” she argues. “I walk to and from _Gonakru_ by myself all the time.”

“This isn’t helping your case one bit, you realize that, right? Now I’m just even more concerned.”

“It’s fine,” Lexa sighs, laughing softly. “I’ve been in this neighborhood a long time, Clarke. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Maybe you should let me worry about what worries me…wait. Did that come out right? I got kind of lost in all those worries…”

Lexa laughs again, full and rich and wonderful, and by the time they finally arrive on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, Clarke swears her feet aren’t even touching the ground anymore. She feels so buoyant and amazing. 

It’s incredible how fast her world has tilted over this past week. _(Or holy hell…how much has changed since Octavia quite literally shoved her through the door of Gonakru, even.)_

Last night, she sat beside Lexa, who looked so lost and shaken and felt the weight of all… _this_ …all this _feeling_ and _color_ and just… _life_ she brings out in her. And she could never imagine that there could be something in Lexa that could maybe be experiencing even a shred of that, too. Not with all the places in her that have already been claimed. By her work. By the theater that she has turned into a home. By Indra and Anya, who taught her the meaning of _home._ By Costia…who taught her how to reach out, and connect. How to love, bright and pure and fearlessly. 

In the face of all that, Clarke couldn’t believe there was any room left for her. 

But the way Lexa is looking at her right now… _god_ , it gives her hope. 

Somewhere inside, a floodgate has opened for Lexa, and Clarke’s beginning to see what’s rising behind it. She wasn’t sure she ever would. 

“This is you?” Lexa asks, glancing up at the building.

“This is me,” Clarke replies, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

“Well,” Lexa says, drawing up tall and folding her arms. “Thank you for this night, Clarke.”

“Oh my god, are you kidding? Do you even realize how much I owe you for this?” She frowns. “I probably would have gotten harassed by the creepy kid with the stupid sunglasses all night if you hadn’t showed up.”

Lexa grins and looks down, shrugging.

“Seriously, I swear he was cornering anyone there alone. He was like a freakin’ lioness taking down all the weak antelope in the herd or something.” 

Lexa swallows a bark of laughter and shakes her head. “Even still. I’m sure you would have been just fine without me.”

Clarke considers her for a moment, then says, quietly and honestly: “We both know that’s not true.”

Lexa meets her eyes.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, adamant that Lexa accepts this. _Please._

There’s the slightest pause, then Lexa nods, smiling gently. Clarke knows what she’s going to say before she probably even thinks the word. 

“Anytime.”

And then they just look at one another, something jittery and expectant forming in the air between them. Lexa breaks first, backing up a step.

Clarke inhales sharply. _God, how she just wants to…_ She flexes her fingers around the keys in her hand.

“Well…” Lexa says, squinting down the block before turning back. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning, Clarke.”

There’s a flash of headlights then, and they both look up as a car pulls neatly to the curb behind Lexa. In a move that comes as absolutely no surprise whatsoever, Lexa places herself between the car and Clarke, her face set into a wary glare. She glances over at Clarke.

Clarke smiles, then grabs her phone from her back pocket, holding it up. “Called you an Uber.”

Lexa stares at her. “You…what?”

Clarke steps over to the car, pulling open the back door. “Hi,” she says to the driver. “Listen, this is Lexa. Lexa, this is…” She looks at the driver.

“Frank,” he says, eyebrows raised in confusion.

Clarke turns back to Lexa. “Frank. He’s going to take you back to the theater, and you’re going to let him, okay? Just this once, because it’s late? And because it would make me feel a helluva lot better?”

Lexa tilts her head at her, then purses her lips and grins.

“Please?” Clarke adds.

“Alright,” Lexa sighs, moving toward the car. She locks eyes with Clarke as she slides past her, giving Clarke’s hand a slight squeeze as she settles into the backseat. It’s such a small, innocent gesture, but it still makes Clarke’s stomach tumble right over.

Lexa looks up, raking her eyes over Clarke one last time.

And Clarke knows she can see every _want_ careening through her right now. Can see the moment it hits Lexa, and makes her pause, pull in a breath. The way her hand twitches against the car door. 

Lexa swallows, trying to will a smile into place, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly before it wavers. “Goodnight, Clarke,” she says softly, then shuts the door.

Clarke watches the car pull away, and feels her pulse pull back on the reins, beginning to slow. She didn’t even realize how fast it had been racing until that very moment. 

It’s just how being around Lexa feels to her anymore. Everything moves much too fast, except where she needs it most. 

*********************

“Be sure to check your dressing rooms and don’t leave anything behind tonight,” Indra declares, swiveling to look at everyone on stage. “The theater will be dark for the next two days, and Anya won’t appreciate a phone call because you left something here you don’t think you can possibly live without for the next 48 hours.”

“No, Anya will not,” Anya mutters from the other side of the stage, sweeping a glare around the space. “In fact, unless it’s an absolute emergency, I suggest all of you forget that you have my phone number for the next couple days.”

“Ooo, you got big plans, Anya?” Raven digs, nudging the stage manager with her elbow.

“Alie’s staying over,” Anya replies, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Raven’s face falls. “Gross. Forget I asked.”

Anya cackles, returning to her clipboard. 

Clarke catches Raven’s eye and pulls a face. She can’t imagine how disturbing Anya’s version of _“Netflix & chill”_ with her girlfriend must be.

“Lexa?” Indra says. “Do you have anything more for notes?”

They all turn to look at Lexa, who is scribbling in her notebook while simultaneously trying to write an email, her phone balanced on her knee. “No, I’m through for now,” she replies, pausing long enough to cast a glance over the assembled cast and crew. “Please use this break to rest up and get ready, everyone. We have one more week of rehearsal time, and then we’re right into tech week. Stay healthy, and please…” Her eyes fall on Jasper. “Take care of yourselves, okay? We need everyone 100% when we get back.”

Jasper fiddles with the bandage on his arm and nods along with everyone else.

Lexa’s gaze travels over to Clarke, and Clarke immediately smiles at her, unable to hold it back. _She looks exhausted._

The corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts just slightly before she cuts her attention back to what she’s working on.

Indra nods and closes her script. “Alright, then. Looks like that’s it, everyone. Thank you, enjoy your days off, and goodnight.”

Everyone shuffles into motion around the stage, packing up belongings and moving props back to the storage area. Business as usual.

Except for Clarke. She slings her bag over shoulder and just watches Lexa, noting the hard set of her jaw and the grumpy little frown wrinkle that’s formed between her eyes as she finishes her email. _Exhausted…and stressed._

She crosses the stage. “Hey.”

Lexa blinks up at her hazily, obviously caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts right now. She composes her expression in the space of a breath, though. “Hello, Clarke.” 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding and raising up. Her phone slides off her knee, clattering to the stage floor. Grimacing, she shakes her head and picks it back up again, shoving the phone in her pocket. “I’m fine.”

Clarke grins at her. “Clearly.”

Lexa sighs and begins to gather up her things, but she smirks back at Clarke, anyway. “I’ll _be_ fine, how’s that?”

“Better. Thank you. Now, can I do anything to help?”

Standing up, Lexa exhales heavily and stretches her shoulders, looking over at the various _end-of-the-night_ shutdown routines going on around them. She looks back at Clarke, giving her a small, tired smile. “No, but I appreciate it.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at her and nods. _I figured that would be the answer I’d get._ “Okay. I just wanted to tell you…well, even if you’re not really looking forward to it, I hope you have a good trip.”

“Thank you,” she replies, shrugging slightly. “I’ll certainly try, at least.”

“Don’t let all that L.A. nonsense get in your head, either,” Clarke adds, wagging her finger at Lexa. “I know how that place operates. If you come back spray tanned and talking about how fab oxygen bars are, I’m scheduling an intervention _stat.”_

Lexa grins. “Hmm. It’s a short trip. I think I’ll be able to resist. No promises, though.”

Clarke backs away a step, because Lexa looks so tired and kind of miserable right now and what she really wants to do is pull her in and hug her as tightly as she possibly can, and that just can’t happen. Not when they’re still surrounded by most of the company of _Gonakru._ _(Not even if they weren’t, if she really feels like staring down the truth for a second…)_ “Okay,” she says quietly, directing a gentle smile at the director. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Noted,” Lexa replies. She looks at Clarke, then takes a breath and ducks her head. “There is something you can do for me, actually.”

“Yeah?”

Lexa nods, meeting her eyes again. Then she gives her a wide, full smile. “Enjoy your time off, Clarke.”

Clarke laughs softly and shakes her head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

And now it’s Lexa’s turn to back away, her eyes still fastened on Clarke. “See you in a couple days.” 

She pivots on her heel and heads backstage, head down and determined.

Clarke stares after her for a moment longer, then sighs and moves off toward her dressing room.

******************

“We’re heading over to _Tondisi_ for a couple drinks soon. You coming, or what?” Octavia asks, leaning against the doorframe of their dressing room.

Clarke shakes her head. “I think I’m going to pass tonight. The gallery sent over contact info for my buyers so I can send them thank you notes, and I want to get that done. Plus I have an epic pile of laundry that’s been staring at me all week. Things are getting dire, O. I’m wearing _Iron Man_ underwear right now because it was one of the last pairs I could find this morning.”

“Totally hot, Griffin,” Raven tosses at her as she walks past their dressing room.

Clarke drops her face into her hands.

“Thank you notes and laundry, huh? That’s like a night at fucking _Downton Abbey_ , Clarke. Come on. We’ve got two days off, already. Come have a drink with us.”

“Seriously, O. _Iron. Man. Underwear._ I have to fix this.” 

Octavia sighs loudly, sliding halfway down the doorframe with a groan. “Fine.” She straightens back up and grabs her bag, preparing to head out. “Don’t wait up for me, _Countess.”_

“I never do,” Clarke lies, smirking and blowing her a kiss.

Octavia leaves, then pops her head back inside the door. “Hey, if you’re doing laundry, can you throw in my _Allman Brothers_ t-shirt? I want to wear it tomorrow…”

Clarke throws an empty soda can at her. It misses her completely, but it makes Octavia laugh, anyway. 

“Love you, Griff,” she says as she leaves again. 

Clarke shakes her head and looks down at the _Maccarone_ envelope laying on top of her script. Which of course makes her think of last night, and Lexa, and… _ugh. It’s going to be a long couple of days if you don’t cut that out right now._

She opens the envelope and scans the list of names.

Then she scans it again.

And then she’s flying right out of her chair.

In the hallway, she spies Raven leaning over a case of mic packs, sorting through wires.

“Hey, Raven? Do you know where Lexa went?” Clarke asks, clutching the envelope by her side.

“Her office, I think,” Raven grunts, not looking up from the mess of wires she’s trying to untangle. “Why? Something wrong?”

“Nope. Thanks,” Clarke says, practically jogging down the hallway. 

****************

When she arrives at her office, Lexa’s door is open. Clarke is so flummoxed she forgets to knock, and when she barges through the doorway, Lexa actually _jumps._

“Good god!” Lexa cries, dropping the files she was holding, which scatter across her desk. She stares at Clarke, wide-eyed. “I didn’t even hear…” She takes a breath, settling a bit. She gives her a puzzled look, concern spreading across her face once she notices Clarke’s attitude. “What’s wrong, Clarke?”

Clarke holds up the crushed envelope in her hand. “You bought my painting?”

Lexa draws back like she’s been shoved, dropping her eyes. She peeks under her lashes to the corner of her office before she glances up at Clarke. “I did,” she says cautiously.

Clarke turns, spotting the canvas sitting in the corner, still covered in the brown gallery wrapping it was delivered in. She looks back at Lexa.

“I was going to have it framed when I got back,” Lexa adds, shrugging, her wary eyes never leaving Clarke’s face.

Clarke just stares at her for a moment. “Why?”

“Because I want to hang it up, and I need to have it framed in order to—“

“No. Why did you buy it?” Clarke interrupts, shaking her head.

Lexa quirks an eyebrow at her. “I’m a little new to art sales, but…is this how yours customarily go, Clarke?”

Clarke huffs, running a hand through her hair in exasperation. _Take a second, Griffin. You’re kind of on overload here._ She takes a deep breath, then just looks at Lexa, pleading with her.

Lexa finally smiles, wading in carefully. “I just wanted…” she begins, then pulls up, changing course. “I just liked it, and I bought it. Is that fair enough?”

“Well, sure, but…” Clarke stops, folding her arms. “Lexa, I can’t possibly accept…” She waves the envelope for emphasis. “This is too generous. I mean, if you want me to paint something for you, I’d be happy to, but this is…” 

“It’s already done,” Lexa replies, crossing over to the painting in the corner. “I’m pretty sure _Maccarone_ has an all sales are final policy, anyway.” She smirks at Clarke and runs a hand over the heavy paper wrapping. Her fingers are shaking.

Clarke sighs, folding up the envelope and shoving it into her pocket as she moves toward Lexa. _She might be the most stubborn goddamn creature I’ve ever met, and I live with Octavia…_

“I was hoping you’d help me find the right spot for it in here,” Lexa continues, glancing around the office. She’s avoiding looking at Clarke. “Somewhere with good light, you know?” She points toward the far wall. “I was thinking maybe over there, but…”

When Clarke reaches her, she stops talking, resolutely staring at the canvas. 

“Will you please look at me?” Clarke asks quietly.

After a long moment, Lexa does.

Clarke smiles at her. She will never stop being amazed by Lexa, and Lexa will never stop being amazing, and she should just give in this time and fucking accept it. She raises her eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head before she can find her voice again. “Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Lexa says, giving Clarke a tentative smile back.

Clarke pats her pocket. “No, I have about three thousand reasons to thank you, so you’ve got to let me have this one, okay, Lexa?”

Lexa just grins and runs her hand over the wrapping paper again. “Is it okay to take this off? I didn’t know if it was safe to…”

Clarke inhales and backs up a step, nodding down at the canvas. “It’s perfectly safe, yeah. You just want to avoid letting it sit anywhere it might get direct sunlight or, you know, water damage. Both of those are pretty bad for it.”

Lexa is already tearing the paper off carefully, so Clarke helps her, kneeling beside Lexa on the floor as they unwrap the canvas.

As the painting emerges beneath, Clarke lets her eyes travel over her work, remembering the night she started this piece. She’d gone down to _Pier 84_ that afternoon, partly because she wanted to better orient herself with the city and she hadn’t been yet, and partly because the walls of their apartment had started feeling way too confining and close that day. So she’d sat on a bench and stared into all that brackish gray water and open space until this flared up behind her eyes.

“You really like it?” Clarke asks softly.

“I really do.”

Lexa props the canvas against the wall, and they both just stay where they’ve landed, quietly studying the painting. 

It’s a ship. A massive, wooden Brigantine sailing vessel that looks like it should be swarming with pirates, sails strung up high with criss-crossed ropes that almost resemble veins. The ship’s prow rises out of a thick, dense fog surrounding it. There’s a woman standing at the wheel, the captain. She’s alone on deck, her long cloak whipping back behind her, and she's staring into the fog, a look of sheer determination on her face. Searching for a way out of this. Trying to get through without smashing her boat into smithereens on all the jagged unknowns waiting for her out there in the murk.

“Octavia says it’s depressing.”

“I don’t think it’s depressing at all,” Lexa replies. “I think it’s hopeful.”

Clarke turns to her, eyes roaming over her profile. “Why hopeful?” she asks. Her voice has dropped down to its lowest, raspiest register. 

Lexa squints at the painting. “Well, at first glance, it looks like she’s facing an absolutely dreadful obstacle, right? Like everything out there in the fog is just waiting to destroy her. But…” She leans forward, pointing to the corner of the canvas. “If you look closely…here.” She backs up again. “There’s a light. A lighthouse, maybe. It’s way out there, way off along the horizon, but it’s there, and it will get her home. It’s waiting for her, too. She only needs to notice it.”

And then she turns her head and looks at Clarke, smiling that soft, gorgeous smile, and something just… _breaks_ inside Clarke. 

She leans forward, cupping her hand along Lexa’s cheek. Suddenly, everything else in the room simply dissolves. It’s just Clarke’s trembling, reverent fingertips panning across Lexa’s jaw, caressing the nape of her neck. It’s Lexa’s green, green, _so green_ eyes, wide and surprised. It’s the tiny, shuddered gasp that escapes her the moment Clarke begins to lean in. 

There’s this unwavering, kinetic _force_ pulling her to Lexa — as strong and sure as it’s been from the start — and she’s fought so hard, she’s locked things away, tried to be patient…standing by, holding herself back...but in a moment of utter, shining clarity, Clarke knows she is absolutely _powerless_ to stop what’s happening right now. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.

So she just surrenders. 

And kisses her.

Their mouths meet breathlessly, Clarke’s hand still curled gently at Lexa’s neck and Lexa reaching out blindly, bracing against Clarke’s hip, her fingers gripping the material of Clarke’s shirt and squeezing _hard._

Lexa’s mouth slides against hers and Clarke’s never felt anything as soft or wondrous or just so fucking perfect and _right_ as the moment Lexa absolutely _melts_ into her and starts kissing her back, parting her lips and pressing in, her hand still locked at Clarke’s hip but _pulling_ now, dragging them closer.

 _This is happening. This is really happening. I’m kissing her and she’s kissing me and I feel like I might fly apart if she stops and that I might fly apart if she keeps going and_ …everything _slams_ full speed and all at once into Clarke and she hears herself actually _whimper_ into Lexa’s mouth, and —

And that’s the thing that wrenches Lexa back, staring at Clarke with her lips still parted and the most fear Clarke’s ever, ever seen shining in those eyes. 

For a moment, they simply look at each other, completely suspended, too startled to move.

Then it hits her. And Clarke realizes what the hell she’s just _done._

“Holy shit.” She releases Lexa immediately, yanking her hands back into her lap, her horrified gaze falling down and just hanging there, trained on her upturned palms. 

_Holy. Shit._

And then she’s just all motion, scrambling to get to her feet and put as much distance between herself and Lexa as she possibly can.

“Wait…”

She registers Lexa’s voice, but it doesn’t punch through the high, whining clamor going on in her head, deafening as mortar blasts. “I’m so sorry,” Clarke croaks, twisting for the door so fast she nearly collides with Lexa’s desk. “My god, I’m so sorry…” _Holy shit, I’ve fucked things up so badly…_

She’s almost to the door, _almost there…just let me run, let me get away…_

Then suddenly Lexa’s right behind her, grabbing Clarke around the waist and spinning her around, pulling her in and holding _tight._ Clarke struggles against her, so desperate to escape that she can’t even let herself accept the _rushing torrent_ feeling of Lexa’s arms closing around her, drawing her in. 

“Wait…” Lexa gasps, holding Clarke firmly in place. Her face is pale and she’s breathing hard and she is so deadly, deadly serious right now that it only takes one look into her fierce, level stare for Clarke to stop struggling. 

“Wait,” she repeats, her hands twitching against Clarke’s arms. She searches Clarke’s face like she is as lost to all of this as Clarke, a spectator thrust sidelong into the fray before she could ever really learn the rules, and she’s grappling like hell to catch up before she violates every last one of them.

They look at each other for just a few breaths more, mystified. Terrified. 

Then Lexa squeezes her eyes shut and a shudder courses through her, and when she opens them again and their gazes lock, Clarke knows — even before Lexa’s arms tighten around her — something has just changed. 

She’s felt that mad, wild current in Lexa from the beginning. Raging right under the surface but _so_ controlled, so masterfully wielded in Lexa’s hands, doled out when she's needed it, but able to be called back when she was ready for it to go back into hiding.

But when she sees the way she is looking at her now, Clarke knows…something inside Lexa has just been set _free._

And this time, she doesn’t think Lexa stands a chance of calling it back.

“Come here…” Her voice is so raw she nearly breathes the words and then Lexa’s sliding her hand up and around to the back of Clarke’s neck and they are positively _crashing_ together.

Clarke’s mouth opens in a gasp and Lexa kisses her _hard_ , pulling them flush against each other, and suddenly every last atom of Clarke is igniting, glowing _gamma ray red_ and twice as dangerous. Before she even realizes what she’s doing, her hands are buried in Lexa’s hair and she’s pushing her body forward until Lexa’s back collides with the wall, Clarke’s entire world reducing to only the pliant give of Lexa’s lips, the feel of Lexa’s hand slipping over the slope of her ribcage and down to the jut of her hip, trailing fire. 

Lexa makes this helpless, low growl sound against Clarke’s mouth, and it’s instantly the most glorious thing she’s ever heard. She grins into their next kiss, breaking away and then right back again, changing the angle, hearing the catch in Lexa’s breath when Clarke bites softly at that gorgeous, pouty lower lip, _(because it’s something she’s maybe daydreamed about doing more than once, and she’s sure as hell not going to pass up the opportunity now…)_

What she couldn’t anticipate, though, no matter how vivid her wayward fantasies could have ever, ever been, is the almost _primal_ response it sets off in Lexa. She gasps and flips them around, pinning Clarke between her body and the wall, and then there are shiver sparks rippling all along Clarke’s spine and racing outward, lighting through her and causing her to quake all over. She makes this choked noise in the back of her throat and practically _clings_ to Lexa because she’s suddenly so overcome with all the fever bright heat and intensity of this, the way Lexa is holding her _so close_ and kissing the wits right out of her, and she knows she has to slow this down somehow because she may not actually survive it, otherwise. 

There are images spilling in every direction inside her head right now but the only one that keeps spluttering through, again and again, is the word _immolate_ , flashing like a warning. 

So she draws back and breaks the momentum, and even though her breath is still spiraling and her pulse is still knocking against the stratosphere somewhere, she comes back to Lexa’s mouth slower, gentler…easing them down until gradually, their kisses turn quick and light, cooler. 

There’s such a sweetness to it, how Lexa keeps Clarke within the loose circle of her trembling arms, their foreheads resting together, Lexa’s eyes shut tight. She’s still breathing hard, and when she finally opens her eyes, they are dark and glittering and just a little bit astonished.

(Which Clarke can’t help but rejoice about because… _fuck_ , she has never, _ever_ in her life been kissed like _that_ , and Lexa has the nerve to look at her right now like _she’s_ the sorceress who just conjured all that magic back there…)

Clarke smiles at her. And she’s sure it’s the dopiest, most blissed-out smile she’s probably ever given.

Lexa blinks, swimming back to herself all at once.

And Clarke could have never seen this coming, not at all. 

Not after what just happened.

Lexa raises up, and then…something _shatters_ in her expression. 

She drops her arms and backs away from Clarke, bouncing into the wall and just _staring_ at her, suddenly looking so guilty and horrified that Clarke feels the impact of it as swiftly as an arrow thudding smack into the center of her heart.

“Lexa?” Alarmed, Clarke jerks forward a step, reaching out her hand helplessly.

But Lexa doesn’t reach back. Instead she lurches toward the door, falling right into it, barely catching herself against the doorframe. She grips the doorframe and lifts her eyes to Clarke, and every last beautiful thing Clarke usually sees there is just… _gone._

And then…so is Lexa. 

She’s out the door and down the hallway before Clarke can manage to get her legs to carry her across the office. Then they just give out completely.

She waits there, and it could have been an hour and it could have only been minutes, she doesn’t even know. But she just sits on the floor of Lexa’s office and stares at the door, and feels something sinking away inside her, disappearing as if being dragged under by quicksand.

When it vanishes altogether, she finally realizes Lexa’s not coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to my friend, Lamp04... I'm sorry if I've just ruined your sleep tonight with that ending. But, trust me, okay? I've _got_ this. I've totally got this. It's all going to be okay, I swear...


	9. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I'm going to open this with a couple warnings. One: This is long, but I had quite a bit to sort through, so I hope you'll forgive me on that front.
> 
> Two: There's gonna be some angsty times ahead. And if you'd like to yell at me after, I completely understand, I do. But this had to happen to get us to the next spot. So, if you've trusted me up to this point, I can only ask you to extend that _juuuust_ a little farther, because I'm already hard at work on Chapter 10. (And dear god, I hope it's not as long.) I will make this right. Because this one was tough on me, friends.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Bellatores for the beta and the encouragement when it was so desperately needed. You're just one of the loveliest humans around.
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Siv Jakobsen. (P.S. - I don't encourage listening to her album unless you have a healthy supply of something serotonin-boosting on hand. This song in particular is straight up gorgeous, but you will _definitely_ need a chaser afterwards. It was on heavy rotation during the writing of this chapter, which might explain some things.)
> 
> Thank you all so much for being here, and for every incredibly kind thought you've shared or cheer you've thrown my way. I feel redundant when I say this, but it's as true now as it was back in those first few chapters...I'm so grateful for every last one of you. Like, that 'way, way down in the soul' kind of grateful. 
> 
> Ya'll just mean the world to me, and you are so loved. Until next time... 
> 
> (After all the yelling dies down, I mean. I'll still come back for that. Face my penance like a grown person should.)

******************************

**11:17pm**

_Please call me back._

**1:09am**

_Please don’t do this._

Clarke stares dully at her phone screen, the last two texts she’s sent. She’s had Lexa’s phone number since day one of rehearsals; the director had insisted that everyone involved in _Break Slow_ needed to have the production team’s contact information, in case of emergencies. Until tonight, she’s never used it.

 _It doesn’t seem to do me any good, anyway._

She closes out the message screen and reopens it again. _Nothing._ Checks the time.

_It’s been almost three hours since you sent your last text, Clarke. Raise that white flag, already._

_She’s not calling back._

And then — just like it’s been blasting in since she dragged herself out of the theater — the replay kicks off in her head. _The office…her painting…Lexa’s eyes turning dark and endless and…come here…and everything’s just pulse and breath and blood rushing want and…burning…she’s leaving, it’s all burning…all she can taste is cinders on her tongue and smoke in her chest and…oh god please…I can’t breathe…_

It had taken more than a few tries for Clarke to pick herself up off of that floor earlier. 

Each time she’d managed to get her legs underneath her and rise, this horrible, crushing…just… _empty_ feeling would overtake her, and she’d go right back down again, slumped in a heap. Numb, inside and out. 

When she tried to think as far ahead as the next minute, look for _what the hell do I do now,_ she would just get a flashbulb image of Lexa’s face as she fled. The utter desolation in her eyes. Like she’d been stripped clean and gutted of anything Clarke might hope to recognize in her.

_You should have known you’d destroy this._

For several long, agonizing minutes, it was the only thought she could get to materialize. 

After that, nothing much kinder would come through, either. 

_You should have known you wouldn’t be enough._

_You should have known._

Slowly, though… _(and how, she’s still not really even sure)_ , she’d made herself stand up. Move. She can’t remember a time she’s ever had to concentrate so much on the simple act of walking. 

_Take a step. Another. One more. Breathe. Repeat._

When she found herself in her dressing room, she felt like she had devolved. Into what, she didn’t quite know, but it was as if she’d wandered to some kind of fugue state weigh station in her mind — somewhere between conscious and comatose, not even _close_ to aware. She looked around and simply couldn’t force herself to connect to anything. None of it seemed like hers. 

Someone else’s things scattered around the room. Someone else’s keys and script and makeup bag. 

Someone else’s reflection in the mirror. 

_Clarke was here,_ written in lipstick at the corner. _(Octavia’s doing. One of those dumb, silly pranks she’s always pulling.)_

Someone else’s life. Because she just obliterated hers, and now all she has left is ash.

_Clarke was here._

Until she just wasn’t anymore.

At some point, she remembered Lexa’s number, and called. After the third time Lexa didn’t pick up, she sent those two unanswered texts. 

And then she quit trying. 

Because it was clear that, wherever she was…Lexa didn’t want to talk.

Clarke refreshes her messages again.

_Maybe this just doesn’t qualify as an emergency to her._

_Doesn’t matter how much I might feel like I’m dying._

She hauls her gritty eyes off the screen and drags them around the living room, her gaze falling on her sketchbook still laying open on the coffee table, the sketch she had started working on last night in an effort to tire her brain enough to catch a couple hours’ sleep. She’d been so wound up and floaty after her night with Lexa, so full of _ohmygodohmygod_ and _thisissofuckingincredible_ and… 

Her eyes trace over the drawing. 

Lexa’s hands. The painfully familiar, elegant shape of them, outlined in charcoal. 

Something searing and needle sharp stabs through her and she has to look away, has to gulp in a breath, has to _figure out what to fucking do because Christ…I can’t handle this, I can’t take this, I can’t…I can’t…_

She makes this torn up, pitiful _mewl_ sound that gets stuck in her throat and then all of a sudden the tears come and she’s just _down_ in them, ruined and shaking, sobbing into the arm of the couch.

Which is precisely how Octavia finds her when she returns home.

As soon as she hears the deadbolt rattling, Clarke launches up from the couch and swipes a hand across her eyes. She knows she must look awful — hair mussed, face all swollen and blotchy — the signature stamp of _ugly crying 101._ She won’t be able to hide this from O. Right now, though, she just really can’t make herself care.

Octavia stands in the doorway and stares at her as she pulls her keys out of the door lock.

With a long, sapped sigh, Clarke glances up.

“Oh, fuck. You slept with Lexa, didn’t you?”

“What?” Clarke splutters, recoiling in shock. “Wh-what?”

“Goddamn it,” Octavia groans, shutting the door. “I told you this was going to happen, didn’t I?” She crosses the room and drops her things on the kitchen countertop, shaking her head.

“But, we didn’t…I didn’t sleep with Lexa, O,” Clarke assures her, scowling and rubbing her temples. Her voice sounds as exhausted as she feels right now. 

Octavia twists her mouth into skeptical frown and cocks an eyebrow at her.

“I _didn’t,_ ” Clarke repeats. 

“Then what the hell is up with all this, huh?” Octavia volleys back. “All the distraught waterworks and the really bad mugshot hair? I know this look on you, Clarke. This is the _‘my heart just got stomped on’_ look. What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know, we…god, I don’t even know what happened, okay?” Clarke rakes a hand through her hair angrily, snagging on a tangle and wincing. “One minute we were…and then she just…” She stumbles to a stop and covers her face with her hands. “We kissed.” The confession comes out as more of a mumbled _‘weh issed’._

_Silence._

Clarke peers out at Octavia from between her fingers.

“You kissed.”

She raises up and nods.

“All of this, because you just…” Octavia pushes an errant braid away from her face and rolls her eyes. “See, this is what I meant. You two are like, fucking, what’s that shit called… _acetone peroxide_ or something. Way too many ways for that to blow up.”

Off Clarke’s remarkably confused, furrowed-brow look, Octavia flings her hands out to the side and shrugs. 

“What? You watch a lot of _Nova_ , nerd.” She motions to her forehead. “You know I retain shit like a fucking sponge…”

_(It’s true. O’s kind of a savant in that way. She’s had all of her lines memorized for weeks now.)_

Clarke growls in frustration and scrubs her hands over her eyes, which sting now after her crying episode. “Look, I don’t need any help telling me I fucked up, okay? I get it. I fucked up. I was reckless and I should have just waited and _talked_ to her instead of…” 

Her face crumbles and she pauses, chin quivering. “I am so stupid. I just charged right in like I always fucking do because I thought she was in the same place with this thing, but she’s clearly not and now she won’t even talk to me…” A stray tear rolls down her cheek, which she wipes away furiously. “I just thought she felt the same way,” she says, small and hurt. “But maybe I was just really fucking wrong this time.” 

_I was so sure. It felt so…but then…her face. God, I’m never going to forget her face…_

Octavia sighs and moves toward her, collapsing onto the other side of the couch, her legs sprawled out and crossed at the ankles. She’s quiet for a moment. 

Head hanging low, Clarke just stares at the floor, but her traitorous eyes keep trying to drift over to the sketchbook still resting in her periphery. She reaches out and slaps it closed.

“Alright, so…here goes,” Octavia finally says. “Even though I wasn’t entirely honest about my reasons at first, I tried to wave you off of this when I saw how hard Lexa had your tail wagging at auditions. I did that for both of your sakes, because you’ve both been dealt some shitty fucking cards in the past, and — normally — when two people like that get together, it hardly ever ends well, you know?” 

She pauses, balling up a fist and tapping the arm of the couch a few times as she thinks. “But with you two, especially. Because I know how deep both of you can get into your feelings. Both of you like to sit down and, like, _wallow_ in that shit sometimes.”

Clarke shoots her a sidelong look.

“And there’s not a damn thing wrong with that,” Octavia concedes, holding up a hand at Clarke. “That’s not what I’m saying. That’s where your art comes from, and that’s where Lexa finds her words, and both of you create these amazing fucking beautiful things when you let yourself get in those places.”

That causes a frail, wobbly smile to form on Clarke’s face, and Octavia pats her on the leg before she continues.

“But this — ” she inclines her head toward Clarke. “Was the part that really worried me, and why I kept nagging at you to leave it alone. I saw the damage you two could potentially do. Even at the beginning of rehearsals, I could see the way both of you were looking at each other, and I could tell that this wasn’t just some crush that was going to go away, not for either of you.”

“What? No, that’s not…” Clarke protests, fatigue catching up with her and causing her words to come through haltingly and thick. “Lexa barely noticed I was there most of the time. She didn’t even really start talking to me until —“

“Oh, she fucking noticed you alright,” Octavia interrupts. “All day, every day, Clarke. Why do you think she was working so hard to make it look like she _wasn’t_ noticing you?” 

“I don’t…I’m not following you, O.”

Octavia smirks. “Remember how I also said you can be kind of oblivious sometimes?”

Clarke frowns at her. “I just think you might have a few things twisted this time.”

“I’m telling you, sister. You didn’t know Lexa before this. You’ve been on her radar for a loooong time now. She may be pretty slick when it comes to keeping things locked down and all, but, she was so, like, strictly-business with you at first that she totally gave herself away. Not to you, I guess. But I could tell.” She snorts, shaking her head. “You should see the way she watches you when you’re on stage…”

“Come on, I don’t need you to do this, okay?” Clarke says, straining to hide the waver in her voice. O’s being kind to her, and it’s having a hazardous effect on whatever meager composure she’s managed to cobble together. She can handle smart-assed rebukes; that’s the typical schema of her friendship with O. But generosity might break her right now. Even on a good day, it’s something she’s never quite known how to accept. “You don’t have to try to…”

“No, I’m serious,” Octavia argues, grinning. “It’s, oh my god…she gets these big, moony fucking cartoon eyes when you’re up there. I’m talking, like, _Bambi_ eyes. It’s…look, if I’m being honest, it’s actually kind of precious. Funny as _fuck_ , but precious. I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it. Lincoln actually managed to snap a pic of her one time…”

“Please stop it. This isn’t helping, you know,” Clarke finally snaps, hunching forward. _Fuck._

“Hey, no…that’s not…” Octavia says, fluttering her hand at Clarke. “I’m not making fun, I’m making a point, here. I definitely don’t think you’re alone in this, Griff. I think Lexa’s just as spun around as you are. I know I can be an ass about it sometimes, and I’m sorry. You know I kind of live to give you grief. But for real, though…keeping you two away from each other is as useless as, like, taking Anya to a spiritual fucking yoga retreat or something. That shit just ain’t gonna work out right at all.”

Clarke holds up her phone. “Sure, that must be the reason why she’s refusing to answer me. She just can’t keep herself away.” She reflexively checks the screen again to be sure she hasn’t missed anything, then tosses her phone back on the table with a disgruntled sigh. “It can’t possibly be that I’ve completely freaked her the hell out and now she’s off having some panicky meltdown somewhere. I mean, as we speak, Anya’s probably on her way over here with a stack of sexual harassment paperwork for me to sign or something.” 

She sits up ramrod straight, the thought having occurred to her only as it was leaving her mouth. _Oh, Christ, no. What if I actually have to…?_

“Well, she better bring extras, because I’m pretty sure Lincoln and I have crossed a line regarding ‘inappropriate workplace relationships’ lately.”

It takes a second, but then Clarke realizes what she’s said. She slowly turns her head toward Octavia. “Get. Out.”

Octavia shrugs. “Yeah. So it would also make me kind of a fucking hypocrite if I kept trying to talk you out of this, you know?”

Clarke stares at her.

“Look, this isn’t about me right now, okay? Lincoln and I are adults, we dig each other. The end. And anyway, there’s no stupid sexual harassment policy. That’s not _Gonakru._ None of us would ever consider doing something gross like that. If anyone ever did, they’d get run out quick.” She pauses. “Also, you know…Raven. Girl would be right out of a job.”

 _Okay. One depressing worry off the table, then. 9,673,234,841 to go…_

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut and falls back heavily against the couch cushions. “Oh, god. I’ve just totally…” She opens her eyes, finding Octavia again. “I’ve ruined everything, O. How am I supposed to go back and face her again, huh?”

“I don’t think you’ve ruined shit. I think you’re freaked and overreacting. I hate to break it to you, girl, but you kind of have a talent for that.”

“Once again…” Clarke huffs, throwing her hands up in the air. “Not helping.”

Octavia grins at her. “But not wrong, either. You may have shaken Lexa’s cage some, sure, but that doesn’t mean —“

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me, O,” Clarke says, suddenly fighting another wave of tears. She blinks and raises her eyes to the ceiling as she tries to get them under control. “God, it was all so…for just a minute, I hoped that maybe I’d gotten something right, that maybe she could…” She trails off, staring up at the ceiling. 

_Could what? If you can’t even pin it down, how the hell were you so certain about Lexa’s feelings?_

A sob escapes her and she presses her hand over her mouth, looking at Octavia helplessly. “How could I have messed this up? She finally started opening up to me, and I pushed too hard and now she’s…” The words run dry and she dips her head down, unable to continue.

Octavia reaches over and places her hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “And now she’s just taking a minute, that’s all,” she says gently. “That’s all it is, Clarke.”

Clarke sniffs and shakes her head. “I don’t…Christ, I just don’t know…”

They sit quietly for a moment. Octavia squeezes Clarke’s shoulder before letting her go and then rummages through her jacket pockets, eventually coming up with her phone. She scrolls through numbers and makes a call.

Clarke glances over at her. Knowing O always takes the direct approach to a problem, an alarming thought occurs to her. _Please tell me she’s not calling Le…_ “Wait, who are you calling?”

Octavia just waves at her and makes the _“shhh”_ gesture.

“O, seriously, who are you —“

“Hey,” Octavia rumbles at whomever just picked up. “I’m gonna need you to come over here…”

Clarke raises her eyebrows and flaps her hands at Octavia, desperately trying to get O to acknowledge her. “Hey, come on…” she says in a frantic whisper. “What are you —“

“I know exactly what time it is, because I’m obviously still awake, too.” She pushes Clarke away with one arm, who is now trying to grab the phone out of O’s hand. “Doesn’t make it any less important that you get your ass up and get over here, now does, it? I need your help. Jesus, hang on…”

She pulls the phone away from her ear and quirks an eyebrow at Clarke. “Would you relax, already? It’s not Lexa.”

Clarke quits slapping at her and draws up. “Who are you —“ she tries again.

“Nah, nothing’s…” Octavia says into the phone, shaking her head at Clarke. “Lexa’s fine, everything’s good, but can you please come over?” A pause. “I know, okay? You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t…alright, yeah. Cool. Text me when you get here. I’ll buzz you up.” She hangs up.

“Who the hell was that?” Clarke presses, smacking O’s arm in irritation.

“Calling in a subject matter expert. You and I go too far back. You’re not going to believe me until I bring someone else in here to help talk you down off this ledge. We need third party arbitration for this.”

“But you don’t under—“

“Uh-uh,” Octavia cuts in, shooing at her. “Nope. Save it. Take a piss, have a drink, keep obsessively checking your phone, whatever the fuck you need to do. But I’m not wasting another breath trying to convince you when you’re dead set against believing me on this. Time. Out.”

O gets up from the couch with a worn out grunt, heading to the kitchen. She starts pulling down glasses and grabs a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, essentially ignoring Clarke, who can only watch her move about.

She mixes a couple of heavily-poured, half-assed screwdrivers and places one on the table in front of Clarke, returning to her spot at the other end of the couch and closing her eyes with a tired sigh.

“Will you at least tell me who you called?” Clarke asks after a moment.

“I will not. Now, seriously. Shut up and drink your juice, Clarke.”

They sit in silence for approximately twenty minutes, Octavia reposed and irritatingly cool, shushing Clarke any time she opens her mouth to try another question. 

When it soaks in that she’s not going to get anywhere with that tactic, Clarke resigns herself to wait out the time by just staring at the space in front of her, taking resentful sips of her drink as she struggles to sort through all her dismal, knotted thoughts. 

Finally, Octavia’s phone chimes. She glances at it. 

“Alright. Showtime,” she says, slapping Clarke’s leg and she gets up to cross over to the door buzzer on the wall. 

Clarke raises up, fussing with her hair and smoothing her rumpled shirt in nervous anticipation, and catches a whiff of sandalwood on her clothes. It causes a quick, vicious flare behind her ribs and she has to shut her eyes at the pain for a second before she can refocus on the door. She exhales slowly, preparing herself.

She’s not sure who to expect, but she can’t help the irrational fear that O might still be plotting some kind of well-intentioned _gotcha_ move on her here, now that the idea has been planted.

But when the door opens, and she sees who is on the other side of it, Clarke thinks: _If your head wasn’t so wrecked, you would have guessed this. Who else would Octavia tag in when she thinks a solid ass kicking is in order?_

“Alright, this better be something fucking _critical,_ Blake,” Raven says, glaring at Octavia. “I was in the middle of a _Stranger Things_ rewatch, and you made me abandon Eleven in the Upside Down all by herself, bitch. She gets _scared_ when that happens.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “We have a problem.” She gestures over to Clarke.

Raven stares at Clarke for a moment, then turns back to Octavia. “Oh, dude. She fucked Lexa, didn’t she?”

“I didn’t!” Clarke cries, slumping forward in her seat. _Christ. Evidently, you haven’t been hiding a bloody thing from anyone, Griffin._ She squints at Raven in the doorway and wrings her hands together. _This was a bad idea, I can already tell…_

“No?” Raven asks, strolling into the apartment. “I just figured with the bloodshot eyes and sex hair and all…” She tosses her bag on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge, helping herself to one of O’s beers. Then, to Octavia she says: “I mean, I kind of always pictured Griffin would be one of those girls who cries after sex, don’t you?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Clarke groans, slumping even farther over her knees. _Such a colossally bad idea…_

“Not something I would ever want to picture, you filthy freak,” Octavia flings back. She pauses, looking Clarke over, then grins. “But yeah, I could get that.”

Clarke rears up on the couch, eyes blazing. “Could you both please just not right now?” 

Octavia doesn’t miss a beat. She can see how precariously Clarke is dangling on the edge. She shrugs at Raven, her face growing serious again. “Alright, she’s had a hard night, let’s go easy on her. Nah…this is…more of a _feelings_ problem.”

“Ah,” Raven nods, taking a swig of her beer. “Yeah, that figures.” She moves toward Clarke, settling on the arm of the couch. “So let me guess. You finally told Lexa you wanna have her babies and she ran, didn’t she?”

Clarke gives her a flat, unamused stare. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t waste time putting on that tired old show. You two have been eye fucking since our first day. I’ve been waiting for this shit to explode for a minute.” 

After a moment, Clarke sighs and gives in, ( _even though she really wants to defend that whole ‘eye fucking’ accusation…)_ “No, it was actually so much worse than that. I…” She stops, shaking her head. _This is pointless._ “You know what? I don’t want to get into —“

“They kissed,” Octavia tells Raven.

Clarke cringes and shoots a glare at Octavia. 

“Whoa. You work fast. I like it,” Raven says, saluting Clarke with her beer.

“It wasn’t like that…” Clarke whines. 

“No, seriously, I’m impressed. Okay, so…you kissed. And?”

Octavia sits down on the floor, cradling her drink against her chest. “And _then_ Lexa ran,” she supplies.

Raven nods, turning this information over. “Yeah. Yeah, that seems about right.” She sets her beer on the coffee table and claps her hands together. “Okay. So…how do we fix this?”

“I don’t think it can be fixed,” Clarke says, inhaling unevenly once those words register with her, and she hears the truth in them. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do at this point, and I think…maybe I just really fucking screwed up, and it’s all just…done.” 

“Pfft, right. Because obviously you and Lexa are the type to just let something go.”

Clarke gives an impatient sigh. Then she feels the impact of all of this _wham_ right back in again, and her voice cracks when she finally says: “She’s made herself pretty clear, Raven. Hence the running part.”

“That’s not what that was,” Raven argues. “No, that was…” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “Look, you know what she’s carrying around. Lexa is…” Her face sobers. “I was there when _Gonakru_ got started, you know? I knew her when she still had Costia.”

Clarke swallows and looks away, rubbing at the tabletop absently as she digests this.

Raven goes on. “And let me tell you, Costia left a big fucking hole in the world when she left. She was just too much, like…she kind of lit up everything around her. And then she was just… _gone._ Like that. None of us could even seem to figure out how the fuck to grasp that. Especially Lexa. Those first days after, she…” She stops and dips her head down. “It was hard to find her in there anymore, you know? She would look at us and speak to us and it was just like she’d been ripped out of herself or something. Nothing left but the basic mechanics inside.”

Raven leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees, her stare unfocused and distant. “So Lexa…she got through the only way she could. She’d been given this one thing to try to keep Costia with us. _Gonakru._ She started right in with getting the theater off the ground and just never looked up, never quit, no matter who or what tried to stop her. Dropped out of school and put every fucking thing that wasn’t _GN_ on hold.”

There’s a pause while Raven takes a drink of her beer and reorganizes her thoughts, but Clarke can’t seem to look at her yet. She simply stares at the table and tries to not let the heaviness that’s seeped into her limbs completely drag her under. Because she can picture it much too vividly right now, and it’s _excruciating_ to do it: 

A younger version of Lexa, fresh cut with the sorrow of losing Costia. Broken and wrung out, but still trying to swing back at everything closing in on her the only way she’s ever known how — by simply gritting her jaw and grinding forward. Holding on. Just barely, but holding on…to the last thing keeping her from absolutely falling apart. 

“And all of us who came along with her?” Raven resumes. “We did it for Costia but we also did it to keep _Lexa_ with us. We didn’t want to lose her, too, and with the way she was burning herself up back then, we knew we would. So for those of us who cared about her…yeah, we sure as fuck closed ranks around that girl and signed on. No question.” 

She flashes a sad smile and glances over at Octavia before returning to Clarke. “But then once she’d actually accomplished this huge, difficult mission and had gotten the theater opened, Lexa still didn’t let up. She just pointed all that drive at the company, and started taking care of all of us, instead. Working just as hard. It was like she wasn’t ready, you know? Like she couldn’t deal yet and needed something else to concentrate on, so we became that thing for her. We’re _still_ that thing for her, now.”

Clarke nods, falling back into the couch. “I know. And she doesn’t have time or space for anything else,” she says, her tone growing harsher and impatient at hearing just one more reminder that she should have known this wouldn’t work out. “I don’t need you to tell me again, okay? I get it.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, Griffin. So how ‘bout you fucking look at me so I know you’re hearing this, okay?”

Clarke turns her head, meeting Raven’s gaze.

“Ever since I’ve been working with her, I have never seen Lexa’s attention grabbed by anything or anyone else as hard as she’s been zeroed in on you. You’re the one thing — the _only_ thing — that’s pulled her focus in all that time.” She throws her hands out toward Clarke. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, she left _rehearsal_ the other night just to go check on you. And I’ve watched that girl refuse to leave work when she had pneumonia once, okay? Indra couldn’t even get her to go home, and that was _after_ Lexa had nearly passed out cold while she was trying to wrestle one of the scrims down all by her fucking self.”

“She still tries to do that sometimes,” Octavia chimes in. “Lincoln caught her at it last week. I swear to god, she almost tore her shoulder out of socket before he could get there to help.”

Raven glances at Octavia and tips her chin up, sighing. “Of course she fucking did…” She turns back to Clarke. “Because asking for help is like a cardinal fucking sin to Lexa, and that’s just how she’s wired. So Clarke, this shit right here? The whole kiss and bolt and hide routine? This is not Lexa refusing you, not by a long shot. This is Lexa needing help, and not knowing how the fuck to ask for it. And let me tell you, for as much as you’ve had her spinning since the two of you met? You must scare the absolute shit out of her. She probably has no clue how to handle that. _That’s_ why she ran.”

Clarke sucks in a breath and ducks her head, Raven’s words doing little to ease the tremendous ache that has clawed its way into her tonight. Because she can already see what she needs to do. Somewhere during these last hours, she summoned the thought from the clearest-sighted place she owns, the place that has been told — again and again — the same stifling edict, now lodged and canonized in the very root of her. _Don’t be irresponsible, Clarke._ Since then, she’s sensed it spreading out, honey slow and malignant, seeking all the parts of her that burn. 

It turns out that, beneath every howling, torch light feeling she possesses, she still has layers that are nothing but iron and stony edges, after all. And right now, she’s sick with the bitter effort it’s taking her to let those layers colonize the rest of her, snuff her emotions down to tallow. Calcify every imagined, longed-for thing she’s held to these past weeks. She thought it would maybe lessen her wounds — this extinguishing. 

But the darker it grows inside her, the worse she feels. 

“Look,” she finally begins, swallowing against the burn in her throat. “This is not something I’m good with. I haven’t had a relationship in my entire life that didn’t end in some kind of messy, horrible way, and I don’t want to wreck things even more by trying to force Lexa into confronting something she’s obviously not able to deal with right now. That she may not ever be able to…” But she can’t finish that sentence, because it would open up a far deeper level of hopelessness within her that she simply can’t face at the moment. _(For her, and for Lexa.)_

She looks at Raven and Octavia, pleading with them. “Not with _her,_ okay? She’s…I don’t want to be just one more thing that hurts her.” She pauses and looks back down at her lap, studying her hands while she fights the tears that are threatening to rise up again. “I couldn’t possibly live with that. So, please. Let me just…” 

Clarke exhales in a shudder and meets their gazes again. No matter how much she hates it, no matter how much she knows it’s going to completely shred her to do this, (that it’s already shredding her, _because fucking Christ this is killing me)_ — she’s made a decision and she has to get them to understand. “I need to stop, okay? I need to just stop before I make this any worse. Please.”

A moment passes, both of them regarding her quietly. 

Finally, Octavia nods. “Okay, Clarke. If that’s what you need, then…yeah. Okay.” 

Clarke senses something slump within her, tattered and spent. She exchanges a grateful look with Octavia before O stands up and heads into the kitchen to prepare another drink.

Raven remains perched on the arm of the couch, studying Clarke intently. 

When their eyes connect, Raven shakes her head and reaches forward, jabbing her finger into Clarke’s shoulder. “You are constantly selling yourself short, dude.” She backs away. “And at first I thought maybe it was because you like to pull that annoying fucking false modesty thing that people do, even when they really know they’re completely badass? But, nah. You actually believe that shit, when you put yourself down or say you’re not capable of something. And it breaks my fucking heart, Clarke, because you’re, like, amazing. And you can’t even see it.”

Clarke stares at her. In the kitchen, Octavia stops what’s she’s doing, raising her head to listen to Raven.

“We’ve all been trying to tell you, shake you out of that a little. Me, Octavia, Lincoln, Echo…practically everyone in the entire damn company, really. And no one… _no one_ more than Lexa. She can’t even look at you anymore without letting it show.” She pauses, tilting her head. “So don’t think for one more second that this is something you can’t handle, because I fucking know better. You’re a strong bitch, bitch.” She pats Clarke on the cheek before rising from the couch, looking down at her. “The only way you could ever hurt Lexa is if you give up on her now.”

Clarke just sits there absorbing what she’s said, feeling as if she’s been steadily peeled back all night, whittled down to a shivering lump of nerves. 

If this were simply a matter of mustering the courage to rebound and charge on, she’d probably be more grateful for Raven’s faith in her. But Clarke knows something Raven doesn’t. She’s already made her boldest move. She gambled in a massive way with Lexa and she lost _hard,_ and now she’s fresh out of tactics and doesn’t have the spirit left to look for more. 

Because she’s already done some harm to Lexa, she’s certain of it. And it’s also mangled Clarke enough to know she never, ever wants to repeat the mistake.

Even so, she can’t help but adore Raven just that much more for trying to talk her into it. Though it may be useless here, her belief in Clarke still means something. It helps her think she might actually get through this, one day.

Still wrestling her thoughts, Clarke watches as Raven walks toward Octavia and picks up her glass off the countertop, taking a swig of O’s newly-mixed drink. In response, Octavia just tilts an insulted eyebrow at Raven and reaches for a glass to pour herself another one. _(Clarke realizes then that O must really think she owes Raven one for coming over and trying to knock some reason into this whole upturned situation, since she didn’t slap her for that trick.)_

Octavia glances over at Clarke as she splashes a shot of vodka into her glass. “You alright?”

Clarke nods slowly, looking at Raven before she turns back to Octavia. “Yeah. I think I just finally figured something out, though.”

“What’s that?” Octavia asks.

Despite everything, she manages a faint grin. If there’s a bright spot to be found in all of this, it’s these two. 

Octavia, who is loyal and fierce, and loves Clarke in a such a beautiful, whole-hearted way, but would probably punch anyone else if they dared to call her on it. Who is a born protector and always tries to put her back together, no matter how many times Clarke has needed it, because she just can’t help but want to fix broken things. Who is still and forever in her life thanks to whatever incredible fortune put Clarke in her sights those many years ago, right when she needed someone just like O to help her get by. 

And Raven. Who is brilliant and brash and one-of-a-fucking-kind, and sees through everyone’s bullshit, every time. Who has the sort of compassion only those who understand what it feels like to be really mistreated can have, so _hell, yeah_ — she’ll show up at 4:00am to help her out. No doubt. It’s how Clarke knows she’s in deep with Raven, and it makes her want to stand up taller, try to keep earning that. 

Clarke shakes her head. “Well, first of all, I love you, O, even when you drive me crazy, which is pretty much always.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Octavia says, laughing to cover her discomfort. Hearing _‘I love you’_ is just something that’s never going to fit well for O, no matter how much she knows Clarke means it. _(And no matter how much O might mean it back.)_ But Clarke’s not going to stop telling her.

“Nope, it just bears repeating,” Clarke replies. “No, the thing I just figured out is…” She gestures at Raven. “ _That’s_ why she’s the tits.”

Raven gulps down another swallow of her drink and burps, then winks at Clarke. “Damn right.” 

***********************

Raven leaves a short while later. On her way out, she crushes Clarke in a hug and tells her to: _“Wear that low cut blue shirt to rehearsal on Wednesday. Lexa almost stapled her hand to the stage left deck rig the first time she saw you in that. Those boobs of yours have powers, Griffin. Let the girls do all the heavy lifting for you.”_

As advice goes, Clarke’s definitely had worse.

Despite Raven and Octavia’s efforts to rouse Clarke out of the dismantled state in which they’d found her, as the apartment quiets and the first rays of daylight begin to appear outside, one glance at her phone is all it takes for Clarke’s despair to crawl all over her again.

She lies in her bed and stares at the pockmarked ceiling overhead. 

Lexa’s flight left an hour ago. 

She’d made a point to ask — an old, anxious habit of hers from back when her mom used to travel so much for work. _(Clarke has always been terrified of flying, and would worry herself into a stomach ache each time she and her dad had to see her mom off at a terminal gate somewhere.)_

And to this day, when anyone she cares about steps on a plane, Clarke still gets their flight numbers. 

So, yeah. She’d made damn sure to ask for Lexa’s. 

_Flight 1121 JFK to LAX. Departure time: 06:20am Arrival time: 09:50am_

In a handful of hours, Lexa will be 2,789 miles apart from her. 

_Even if she were right here, right now, standing in this room…she’d still feel just as far away._

She never called. 

She left. And she never called.

Clarke exhales.

No matter how much she might like to believe Octavia and Raven, and _god, she wants to, so badly, but_ …that hurts. That really fucking hurts. 

That tells her more than either of them ever could.

_How can I possibly go back now? I know I have to. The show opens in two weeks and there’s no way they can recast it in time. I can’t do that to everyone after they’ve all worked so hard. But, holy shit. How am I supposed to work with her?_

She’s so appalled by her lack of self-restraint and also so not shocked she was the first to give in, to selfishly plummet right into all that stashed-away longing she’s had chained and barred inside her since they met. She’s never had much control over her impulses. And every time… _fuck, how could she ever think this would be any different? Every. Time._ They leave her wrecked somewhere, cracked wide open on the rocks and screaming sorry in all directions. 

It just…for this one perfect, suspended stretch of time last night, it just felt so right. True. Like she could be fearless, she could reach for Lexa and it would be okay. 

_And, god, when Lexa reached back…_

It was like Clarke had finally grasped that elusive, nebulous thing she’s been trying to capture for what feels like her entire life — the final, puzzle-cut piece she’d been missing. 

_Welcome to the riot, Griffin. We’ve been wondering when you’d get here._

Gut-punch joy and world-ending desire. She’d held them both for just a moment, standing in Lexa’s arms.

Now that she knows what it’s like, to have felt Lexa slip her bonds and loose all that incredible passion and fire on her…the all-encompassing _scald_ of it. The way it drove right through her and made her forget everything except the next touch of Lexa’s hands, the next half-caught hitch of breath…

Her belly clenches so savagely she flushes all over.

_Christ._

Ignorance was so much easier. It’s the knowing that will get her. It’s the knowing that will devour her heart. 

She rattles in a hard breath.

_No._

_Doesn’t matter anymore._

_Because regardless of how sure you thought you were, how swept up you’ve let yourself get…if this was right, or what you believed it was…_

_She wouldn’t have left like that._

_And she would have called._

She stares at the ceiling.

_Just stop it. You’ve made a decision._

_Now you have to figure out how to survive it._

When sleep finally comes for her, it is troubled, and mean. She dreams of Lexa, the way she looked on that terrace — a memory that feels nearly unbearable now. _Lexa with her face turned to the stars and smiling, searching for Clarke’s beloved galaxy in the sky…_

In those few, fitful hours, Clarke learns her subconscious can be a cruel, pitiless thing. She wakes with thoughts so cold they’ve practically iced over, something fractured and thorny impaled in the space where her heart used to be. 

_Of course you would choose Andromeda._

_You always want the thing that will harm you the most. You always look for what’s farthest out of your reach._

Andromeda, doomed and unyielding. Fatal. 

Andromeda. The most distant object visible to our naked, weak eyes.

*****************************

Clarke spends the rest of the day on chores, pushing herself from one menial task to another at a furious pace in an effort to keep her mind from slipping down into the wretched places it wants to go. 

Octavia sleeps until the early afternoon, emerging long enough to shower and keep Clarke company for a while down in their building’s mildewy laundry room. Before she leaves to meet up with Lincoln for the evening, she goads Clarke into ordering a pizza, and then makes sure Clarke actually eats a slice of it before she goes. 

“Call me if you need me. I mean that,” O says as she’s about to walk out.

In response, Clarke just hugs her. And even though she maybe holds on a little longer and a little tighter than usual, Octavia doesn’t complain once.

Later, while Clarke is folding laundry, her phone dings. If she were in a mental spot where she could care about such things right now, she’d probably find it embarrassing how fast she dives for it.

But it’s only a text from Lincoln. With a photo attached. 

When Clarke opens it, though, she gets so lightheaded she has to sit down.

The angle is skewed; she can tell Lincoln had captured this in a hurry — probably shot from hip level while trying to hide his phone from Indra during rehearsal. But the image is clear, and hits her so hard it nearly drives her all the way into the floor. 

_Lexa._ Standing at the edge of the stage, her arms folded loosely across her chest. She has her chin tipped down and she’s looking across the stage, her head angled just slightly to the right, and there’s a curve to her smile that Clarke recognizes almost down to her marrow at this point. It’s that secret smile Lexa only gives when you’ve managed to get really close, the one that makes Clarke feel like she’s done something so spectacularly fucking _grand_ every time she sees it. The one that’s all softness, and brightens Lexa’s eyes so much they shimmer, light and captivating and lovely. (Octavia’s voice sounds in her head then. _“Moony fucking cartoon eyes…”)_

Even though she doesn’t want it to right now, it still makes Clarke smile a bit.

She’s there, too, at the very corner of the photo. Her arm is raised toward Echo and her face is drawn into a firm scowl, and she can tell she’s fully engaged in Sabine and Devin’s seemingly favorite hobby — arguing. _(Somewhere inside, Clarke dimly notes a slight shock at how fierce, how imposing she looks. She didn’t really know she had that in her.)_

And Lexa’s just watching her. 

_Only_ her.

Below that, Lincoln’s text reads:

_I know you probably don’t want to see this right now, and I hope you don’t hate me for sending it. But I wanted you to have it._

_Because I don’t think I could ever let go of someone who looks at me like that._

_Love you, Clarke. I’m here._

Clarke drops her phone on the couch and closes her eyes. 

_God._

_How can I hurt this much, and still be breathing?_

Her desperate energy suddenly leaches right out of her, and she stays precisely where she’s fallen, calling up the same shaky mantra she’s been using to hold herself together for hours now. 

_I can make it through this…I will make it through this…I can make it through this…I will make it through this…_

_I just have to figure out how._

She loses the rest of the night trying, each minute slicing right into her, jagged as razor wire. 

****************************** 

“You sure you don’t want to come out with us?” Octavia asks again. She’s tying her long hair back in a messy ponytail as she talks, her eyes on Clarke in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe getting out of here for a sec tonight would do you some good.”

 _That’s the fourth time she’s invited me._ Clarke smiles and shakes her head. “No, I’m…” She looks down, flexing her hands together before returning to Octavia. “I’d really rather be alone, honestly. Tomorrow’s going to be…well, I have no clue what tomorrow’s going to be. But I need to get ready for it. I kind of have to do that on my own.” She pauses, glancing over her attire — her softest hoodie, a concert tee from a _Hurray for the Riff Raff_ show she’d gone to with O, and checkered pajama pants. “Plus I really don’t feel like putting on real clothes again.”

Octavia studies her for a moment, then nods. “Alright. I get it.” She exits the bathroom, pulling on a faded leather jacket. “If you change your mind, though, you know where to find us. I could use the backup, too. Miller’s apparently bringing a whole pack of rowdy gays to karaoke tonight. I guess they work at a couple of the other theaters in town or something? Anyway, I’m probably going to be knee deep in show tunes and catty fucking one-upping shenanigans all damn night.”

“You’ll hold your own. I have total faith in you,” Clarke replies, grinning.

Octavia shrugs. “Nah, it’ll be alright. Besides, if they get too out of hand, I can just throw Raven at them and run.”

“Solid plan,” Clarke says with a serious nod. That’s a strategy that could certainly get you out of a tough spot fast.

Octavia moves toward the door. “Okay, Griff, I’ll catch you later…”

“Hey, do me a favor?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah?” Octavia stops, turning back.

“When you see Lincoln, tell him…” She pauses, scrunching up her face. “Just tell him thanks for me.”

After a moment, Octavia nods. Clarke can tell she already knows what it’s for. _(It’s not very easy to keep secrets from someone you’re sleeping with, especially when everything’s new.)_

“You’ve got it.” She continues her exit. “Get some rest, girl,” she says, winking at Clarke as she closes the door.

Clarke looks around the apartment, searching for something to do. Until she can get a better handle on how to exist right now, she’s decided to just try to keep distracting herself. She gets in trouble when she stops. If she looks up too long, she only sees all that bleak dimness surrounding her, waiting to close in and swallow her up.

Before she can pick her next diversion, though, she hears the doorknob turning.

O sticks her head back in. “Hey,” she says lowly, giving Clarke a look. 

_Something’s wrong._

“What is it?” Clarke replies, instantly apprehensive.

“I, um…” Octavia begins. “I found something downstairs that I’m pretty sure is for you.” She seems so anxious, which uncoils a sense of insta-dread in Clarke. She’s staring at Clarke like she’s going to hate her for whatever she’s about to say next.

“Okay. What is it?” Clarke asks cautiously.

Octavia steps through the door, flinging it open wider.

And Clarke sees her.

Lexa.

She’s propped against the doorframe, her shoulder digging into it heavily, as if it might be the only thing holding her up at the minute. _(Judging from her appearance, Clarke’s reasonably sure that may not be an exaggeration…)_ Her complexion is frighteningly pale, skin drawn tight over the fine bones of her cheeks and jaw, throwing her features into sharp, striking clarity. She has purple shadows mottled beneath her eyes, so deep and dark they’ve blanched most of the green from her irises, and there’s such a haunted cast to them that a chill scuttles across the back of Clarke’s neck when their gazes connect. 

She looks like she’s just been lugged from war, and had to leave most of herself behind, scattered on the field. 

The effect of it all is almost as startling as the unalienable fact of her presence here, and Clarke is so knocked off-balance right now she can’t even move, let alone speak. She stares at Lexa, forcing air into her lungs.

“Look, uh…” Octavia murmurs, leaning against the door and shifting her eyes between the two of them in uneasy, quick glances. “I’m going to head out and let you talk.” She focuses on Clarke. “But you call, and I’m right back here, understood?”

O’s words gradually cut through the haze, and Clarke is able to make herself nod. Octavia looks at Lexa with equal parts warning and pity before she slides past her, giving Lexa a subtle nudge into the apartment as she clears the doorway. It causes Lexa to sway a bit, the knuckles of her hand flaring white where she’s gripped the bag slung over her shoulder. There’s an airport luggage tag still attached to it. 

Lexa’s slight movement severs the line of her stare, and she dips her chin down, looking at the floor.

With Octavia gone, the silence swells, unrolling between them, stout and severe.

She looks absolutely terrible, dredging up a strange set of conflicting responses in Clarke. The first, _(and the strongest, which stings)_ is that she wants to go to Lexa, fold her up in her arms, because what she just saw in Lexa’s eyes looked as if she’s carrying around something so injured it’s _wailing,_ and the idea of that skewers Clarke like a lance.

But the second thing Clarke perceives is more unsettling, and hints of treacherous waters ahead. _Satisfaction._ Some shabby, corrupt part of her is glad to see Lexa has been afflicted by this, too. That these past days have been just as vicious to her, and she’s perhaps been imagining Clarke like Clarke has been imagining _her,_ turning thoughts of her over and over, feeling how deeply each one cuts. 

Clarke can’t seem to take her eyes off Lexa, watching her as if she might strike. She’s so tense that when she hears the low, soft scratch of Lexa’s voice, it actually causes her to flinch.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” Lexa begins, and every word is rough and strained. “But I needed to…” She tries to lift her eyes, but can’t seem to force them higher than some point across the room, a careful distance away from Clarke. “I knew we needed to talk.”

Something roils up inside Clarke at this, hotter and more frenzied than the sore, dull throb of agony she’s been living with since they last saw each other, and she realizes too late the seed from which that initial spiteful, smaller reaction sprouted. 

_Anger._ She’s disgusted with herself, yes. Ashamed for plunging ahead and ignoring her better instincts to be careful with Lexa. Even a little humiliated because she feels like she maybe deluded herself into thinking there was more between them than there really was, just because she wanted so much for that to be true. And she _hurts_ in every place it’s possible to hurt inside. 

But right now? Oh, she’s _mad_ at Lexa. 

Lexa demolished her in a thousand different ways and then took off, shut her out, refused to answer when Clarke pleaded… _fuck, begged her_ to please, _please_ don’t leave it like this. _Don’t leave me like this._

And still…Lexa remained silent. 

This has been waiting for its chance to spill the entire time, and even if Clarke didn’t know it was there, it’s suddenly rocketing forward with a _vengeance._ She finds herself leaning into it full throttle, throwing all her caution aside. “Oh, really? What tipped you off? It obviously couldn’t have been my calls. Or the texts I sent you.”

The gnash of her tone causes Lexa to wince and swallow, tightening her hold around the shoulder strap of her bag. 

If Clarke took a moment to second-guess this situation, her rational self would probably recall that she and Lexa are still stuck in a working relationship, outside of all of this. That there are titles to remember, roles to keep, respect that should be granted, given Lexa’s position. Reasons that might have her curbing some of her temper to avoid crossing too many lines. But it seems so fucking futile at this point. 

Lines have already been crossed. Leapt over. Kissed and deserted. It’s just Lexa and Clarke here tonight, and they’re both too pulverized to worry about the details right now.

“I know, and I’m sorry…I just…” Lexa stops and shuffles in place, her head still down. “I came here as soon as I landed. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t need apologies,” Clarke says, and there’s less heat this time, but it’s still lurking, waiting for Lexa to give her an excuse to really unload. She pauses and examines her statement, wondering if it’s actually true or not. 

Her eyes roam over Lexa. She looks different under this new, mistrustful light. Even in her compromised condition, Lexa gives off just a wisp of threat at this moment, something that has Clarke clutching her defenses in a vise grip. 

Because now…Clarke’s seen what she’s capable of, the destruction she can inflict. She’s been marked with it, livid as a welt. “I just needed you to not do exactly what you did.”

Lexa nods, her chest rising and falling in a long, slow breath that seems like it’s difficult for her to draw. She looks so drained and worn down; it still manages to reach something in Clarke’s chest, in spite of everything. She knows Lexa probably hasn’t slept since she left. _Makes two of us._

“I won’t give you any excuses, because there are none for my behavior,” Lexa says after a moment. She finally raises up and meets Clarke’s eyes, which nearly causes Clarke to buckle because she was right — whatever has taken up residence in Lexa needs _saving,_ and fast. Or soon there won’t be anything left to salvage. “But I can’t stop apologizing. What I did was completely awful, and I’m ashamed, and I’m afraid I’ve…” She cuts off, squinting and looking away before she returns, trapping Clarke again with that jolting, tortured stare. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Are you apologizing for avoiding me, or kissing me?” Clarke lashes back. Because she needs to know what she’s squaring off against here, where the punches might come from.

Lexa’s expression collapses even more, but she holds Clarke’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have done either of those things. But I’m not…” She yanks herself away from whatever she was about to say and simply looks at Clarke, lost. It’s like the crater left behind after detonation, how she’s staring at her. Her voice just as hollow when she can finally find it again. “Clarke…”

Everything about this is clashing inside Clarke, knotting in her skull. It’s the burning, sour taste of her wrath clotting in her throat, it’s the brawl that’s not coming, the one she’d garrisoned for, the one she _wants,_ for Lexa to _fight me, fight back._

It’s Lexa saying her name in that torn, defeated way…and taking it all out of her in an instant. 

Lexa is ripping every seam Clarke hasn’t yet managed to close, seeping under the hull she’s been constructing around herself for just this reason. To keep Lexa _out._

_Fuck._

_Fuck this._

_Just…fuck, I hate this._

Clarke expels a huge sigh in one quick rush, tugging at her hoodie in frustration and turning away, glancing into the kitchen. She can’t keep looking at Lexa right now. It distantly occurs to her that she’s been standing here in her pajamas this entire time, but that’s just another bit of unimportant minutia to toss on the pile. 

She hears Lexa shift and cough quietly, which makes her turn back. There’s an unhealthy rattle to the sound, and she catches the flex in Lexa’s knees when she switches her bag to the other shoulder, her eyes downcast once more. 

Clarke realizes she’s waiting for her to attack again. Lexa is nothing but fumes at this stage and literally about to drop, but she’s going to wait there, _goddamn it,_ and let Clarke throw whatever she needs to at her. She’d fall over before she would ever dare ask her to stop.

And that’s what finally quells the pitching, acrid, _sword-drawn_ feeling that’s consumed her, and has Clarke calling a reluctant truce. “Come on,” she says, subdued and quiet. She motions to the couch. “Come sit down. Okay?”

Lexa shakes her head and shrugs. “No, it’s alright —“

“Lexa, you’re weaving like it’s last call over there. Just…would you, please…?” She waves at the couch again.

After a long moment, Lexa complies, crossing over and sitting on the couch, hunching at the very edge of the seat, her bag still on her shoulder. She stares, unmoving, at the coffee table in front of her. 

It might be the most uncomfortable posture Clarke’s ever seen on anyone outside of a hostage situation, but at least she doesn’t have to worry as much about Lexa passing out in the middle of her living room.

Clarke heads to the kitchen and checks the fridge. “Alright, so soda, beer, or water?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Thank you, Clarke, but I’m okay,” Lexa murmurs from the other room.

 _Even now, she’s unfailingly polite._ Clarke shakes her head and plucks a couple of sodas from the fridge. She opens them and sets one in front of Lexa as she moves to the other end of the couch, folding herself against the armrest as tightly as possible and trying not to think about how incredibly odd it is for Lexa to be sitting in her apartment right now, with nothing but a few feet of couch between them. A few days ago, this scenario would have delighted her to no end, and could have very well led to Clarke abandoning all of her sound decision-making skills in a _hurry._

But she’s done that once. She learned her lesson there.

They sit in silence, pointedly not looking at each other.

“So I guess I’ll start,” Clarke finally says, and in her periphery, she sees how Lexa’s fingers curl into fists at the first low rasp of her voice. It causes another strand to unwind inside her. She sighs and looks over at Lexa, taking in the sallow, shadowed detail of her profile. “First of all, you’re obviously not okay. Did something happen?”

Lexa lifts her head slightly and peers at Clarke.

Clarke gives a weary huff. “Something _else,_ I mean. During your trip?”

“Yes and no, in a way,” Lexa replies, shaking her head. “It’s complicated to explain. It’s just…” She turns to face Clarke more fully, setting her bag down on the floor. “The past few days have just been…” She doesn’t finish the thought, and Clarke doesn’t need her to. She already knows.

“Yeah. Alright…well…” Clarke says, pausing to consider her next angle. All of this, all the marvelous highs and horrible lows she’s endured lately — she can tell it’s shifted something within her, dropped the veil she normally allows to stand between them. The one that used to cordon off certain areas for Clarke, hang a sign on them: _Keep out. Too truthful to share._ She’s a little startled to note that she’s feeling remarkably calm at this moment, too, steeped in a strange, perilous blend of daring and assured that is so foreign to her, especially in Lexa’s proximity. 

_This must be what O feels like all the time. Congrats, Griffin. You’ve finally made it to the Land of Zero Fucks Given. I think you’ll like it here._

She looks at Lexa for a moment. _Yeah, we’re not doing this anymore. I’m done living in the spaces between things._ “Look, if we’re going to get anywhere here, Lexa, we’re going to have to actually start talking to each other, okay?” 

And she can see it, the alarm that crosses Lexa’s expression. Considering everything they’ve been through, Clarke can’t help but feel darkly amused and not a little exasperated that simply asking Lexa to speak plainly might still shake her up. A gallows grin spreads across her face. After what she’s crawled through the last few days, she’s just too exhausted to keep up the facade any longer. She can’t imagine anything they might say to one another now could hurt any worse than that. 

Lexa swallows hard and glances down. Then she nods.

“So…just tell me. What’s going on?”

“I’d said before that I had some meetings scheduled to discuss an upcoming project,” Lexa finally says, folding her hands together and staring at them. “But I’ve needed to be cautious about the specifics of that project, and I couldn’t really say much more than that when we spoke about it.”

Clarke maneuvers to face her, leaning back against the armrest of the couch. “Okay. Why is that?”

“Some of it was because, at the time, I wasn’t sure of all the specifics,” Lexa replies. “And some of it was because I couldn’t risk letting the company know, because…” She takes a breath and looks up, finding Clarke’s eyes. “Do you know who Nia Winters is?”

“The studio exec? Yeah, I know who she is. She was the network head at _Azgeda_ even back when I was doing _Skytide._ I think everyone in L.A. knows Nia Winters. She’s big time.”

Lexa nods. “I was meeting with her.”

Clarke tilts her head. “So this must be a pretty serious project, then.”

“It is.” She pauses and sighs heavily. “Have you ever heard of _Night Moves?”_

“Shut. Up. Echo’s show? You’re going to be working on _Echo’s_ show?”

Lexa tips her chin up and looks at the ceiling, her mouth set in a dour frown. “Do you know anything about that show?”

“Only that it exists,” Clarke replies, shrugging. “Other than that, not at all.”

“Okay,” Lexa says, raising her eyebrows as she continues to study the ceiling. “Well, the thing is…” She lowers her chin and fixes her eyes on Clarke again. “I’ve actually already _been_ working on that show for the last year.”

Clarke stares at her. “I’m sorry…what? What do you mean, you —“

“Mind you, _Lexa Woods_ hasn’t been working on that show,” Lexa jumps in, waving a hand at herself. “A very reclusive writer named C.L. Apati has, though.”

And Clarke just keeps staring. “You’ve been…” She clears her throat, shaking her head and regrouping before she can continue. “You’ve been writing one of the most popular shows on TV.”

Lexa nods, ducking her head.

“Under a pen name.”

Lexa nods again.

“For the past bloody _year?”_

Lexa shrugs and folds her arms across her chest, her eyes firmly pointed at her lap. Her knee begins to bounce. “I didn’t really want anyone at _Gonakru_ to know about it. Plus, some of our donors would probably be appalled if they learned what I’d been doing. _Night Moves_ is not a show that’s exactly known for its artistic merit.”

 _Holy hell._ Clarke doesn’t even quite know where to _start_ with this. She flutters her hands in the air between them as if she’s trying to grab one of the hundred swirling thoughts she’s having right now. “Okay, so…” She stops, her face morphing into an overwhelmed expression, eyebrows shooting up. “Jesus. Okay. So many questions…first up, how the hell do you manage to write for them and direct your own theater company? Seriously, do you ever sleep?”

“It takes some very careful planning,” Lexa says, phrasing her responses matter-of-factly, like she’s suddenly at a job interview. “And I certainly get much less of that now.” She nods once, definitively, as if to say: _“Next?”_

“C.L. Apati?”

Lexa’s knee stops bouncing. She glances up at Clarke, flashing the specter of a grin. “Apati means _‘screen’_ in Sanskrit. The Greek translation is actually closer to _fraud.”_ She doesn’t explain the C.L. part. (She doesn’t really need to. An image flickers in Clarke’s brain of those initials carved into the bark of a tree, a crude heart drawn around them, sealing them inside. _C+L forever…_ )

Despite the sad intruding vision, Lexa’s answer actually pulls a chuff of laughter out of Clarke. And for just the barest moment, something sparks behind Lexa’s eyes, suffusing them with the warmth and color Clarke is accustomed to seeing there. 

It’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared, though. Clarke tucks her chin down and runs a hand through her tousled hair, trying to shut down the tugging feeling that’s kicked off in her chest. “Of course,” she says quietly. A few seconds pass before she’s able to push on. “But why the secrecy? Surely you didn’t think anyone in the company would judge you for it.” 

She halts, running that back, then smirks as she looks up at Lexa. “I mean, they might heckle you a _little_ bit, sure, but…”

That scores a genuine grin from Lexa, and the effect isn’t any easier on Clarke. 

_Alright, no more jokes, Clarke. You’re obviously not properly equipped to handle the repercussions right now._

“It wasn’t that. No, it was more…I guess I just didn’t want anyone to worry.” Lexa grimaces and turns her head away, focusing on the bookshelf by the door.

A chime of warning rings out inside Clarke. “What would they be worried about?”

Lexa is quiet for a long moment. “I’m going to tell you something, and even though I don’t deserve to ask anything of you, Clarke…” She closes her eyes briefly and then shifts to face Clarke, sitting cross-legged with her back pressed to the arm of the couch, gaze lowered, chin resting on her fists. Her position is now one of being completely folded in on herself, like she’s prepping to take a hit. 

“And no matter how much I don’t _want_ to ask you,” she resumes, her voice soft, and heavy. “I need to, for the sake of the company. I still need to settle some things before I can reveal this information to all of them. So I must ask to keep this between us for now.”

She waits. She still won’t look at Clarke.

And Clarke’s suddenly not sure which is worse: the sucker punch feeling of witnessing Lexa’s grin, or this — the queasy, foreboding fear currently weaving through her guts at the way Lexa is acting right now. Because Clarke senses that whatever Lexa’s about to reveal is going to leave a _mark._

She squeezes her hands against her thighs, bracing. “Okay,” she finally answers. “Tell me.”

Lexa gives a slight nod, then leaps right in, the rhythm of her words gaining steam as she goes. “ _Gonakru’s_ funding has declined in the last couple of years. We’ve had less support from donors, grants that have fallen through, and I’ve tried to help staunch the bleeding by taking these jobs, but we’re still on very shaky ground right now.” 

She pauses, her face drooping slightly, and Clarke can tell she thinks this is something she’s caused, a failure on her part. Lexa’s jaw flexes. “A director I’d previously worked with suggested me to Nia when she was looking for a new crop of writers for _Night Moves,_ and even though I really didn’t want to get involved with the show, it was such a lucrative offer that I couldn’t possibly refuse outright. We needed the funds here. So…I accepted on the condition that I could work remotely, and that she would keep my name off the project.”

“And you must have done a hell of a job, if you’re meeting with her again,” Clarke says with some hesitation, distracted by the sound of her own wild heartbeat thumping so furiously in her chest. 

“I guess so. Their ratings increased this past season, anyway. Higher ratings means more money for Nia, and she’s just motivated by the bottom line, really, so…” Lexa raises up, leaning against the couch. “She’s offered me a contract.” 

She glances up at Clarke, letting their eyes catch for a moment before she tightens her jaw and stares across the living room. “It’s actually a…” She inhales quickly, squinting with the effort. “Um, a head writing contract.”

It’s like Clarke’s filtering the words through a shoddy phone connection. There’s a slight delay, a tinny, crackling quality to the information she’s getting. “So what would that mean for you?”

“It’s a three year commitment, and requires much more time than what I’ve been doing so far.” Lexa stops, forcing her shoulders back. “It would mean missing most of the season at _Gonakru._ I would still be able to stay on as director, but most of the day-to-day management responsibilities would have to transfer to Indra.”

“Does she know about this?” Clarke asks, seeing an opening. _Maybe there’s a chance Indra could talk her out of…_

“She does.”

Clarke’s burgeoning hope withers and falls flat.

“So does Lincoln,” Lexa continues. “I’ve already spoken with him about potentially taking on some extra duties to help Indra and Anya. And, Echo knows, of course.”

 _That explains it,_ Clarke thinks. _The dodgy weirdness from those two. They’ve known this was in the works all along, and they still tried to encourage me to…nope. Stop. Don’t get upset about that now. You’ve got bigger worries._ Something clicks with her. “Wait…but not Anya? She doesn’t know?”

Lexa practically cringes, her gaze still fastened across the room. “Not yet. She’s not going to take the news well,” she says. “Lincoln and Indra understand I’m doing this for the benefit of the company. Anya will view it as a _betrayal_ of the company, though.”

Clarke focuses on the part of Lexa’s answer that has twisted in her belly so hard. “So you _are_ doing it? You’ve accepted?”

Lexa doesn’t reply immediately. Her hands twitch and she interlocks her fingers, then slowly turns back to Clarke. And for the first time since she arrived tonight, her gaze is open again, lit with the embers Clarke knows, the ones that reach right into her and knock everything askew. 

Clarke can feel every last remaining seam disintegrate and split wide at the sight of it, and then suddenly Lexa is rushing back in, settling within her, reigniting what she has allowed to go dark and hungry and cold. Clarke gasps softly, and she can’t seem to break the connection, can’t look away, can’t help the response that surges through her…how all of it just feels like the word _embrace._

Her reaction causes Lexa to swallow like she’s hurt somewhere, a wrinkle forming across her brow. She has to struggle a moment before she can answer, and she can’t seem to speak until she snips the line between them, dropping her gaze. “Um, no. Not officially. But Nia will be here opening night. She wanted to see the show, and…we’re going to sign contracts then.” 

Lexa pauses, clenching her fists in her lap. “Clarke, I need you to understand…” She lifts her eyes again, and they’re softer now, but god, they still burn. “I won’t be able to do this, coordinate this, like I have before. Not with the additional workload it requires. I’ll have to be on site, on set most of the time, and that means I’ll have to relocate for a good portion of the year.”

“But…wait, what? You’ll actually have to _move to L.A.?_ ” Clarke stumbles, her voice fading at the end. _No. Just…no, that’s not possible…_

Lexa doesn’t falter. Doesn’t blink. “Yes.” 

Clarke stares at her, a chill spreading down her shoulders. “Lexa…you…you _can’t_ …” It’s her first thought. Her _only_ thought right now. Nothing more will push through.

“I have to. I don’t have any other choice, Clarke. If I don’t…” She stops, squeezing her eyes shut before she reopens them. “This may be _Gonakru_ ’s last season. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.” 

Her expression crumples once again, her gaze falling. It’s probably because she’s so overtired, so threadbare, but she can’t seem to gain the upper hand with her composure like she usually does. The longer they speak, the more things are breaking through. And at this moment, Clarke can clearly see what Lexa is feeling — every intense, heart-wrenching ounce of it. That this is tearing her apart. That this is the last thing she wants. That this is completely unfair, and she’s _so fucking fed up with all of it._

She can’t stop herself from reaching out. Not with what Lexa’s telling her right now. 

When Clarke touches Lexa’s shaking hand, it causes Lexa to heave a soft hiccup of breath. She slowly slides her eyes to their joined hands, then links their fingers together, her grip tightening just a fraction. She keeps her gaze there as she begins to speak. “What happened between us…” She says it so quietly. Carefully. “I know I can never take it back, how I reacted.”

Clarke is completely still. She just watches Lexa, feeling her pulse judder from _wild_ to _berserk._

“I know I…” Lexa hesitates, narrowing her eyes. “I know I hurt you, and that’s something I never, ever wanted, or want to do. I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I needed to tell you…” She lifts up, locking on to Clarke, and Clarke is as startled as she is devastated to see tears welling in Lexa’s eyes. 

She makes a low, plaintive noise in her throat and squeezes Lexa’s hand, her own eyes stinging in response. Lexa is about to take her apart all over again.

“ _This_ was why,” Lexa says, her voice catching. “This was why I…I knew this was coming, I knew I would probably have to leave, and…I couldn’t do that to you, Clarke.” Something flares in her gaze, something that’s only _flame_ and _steel_ and pure, blinding _will._ “Not to _you_.”

And that’s what does it. She’s crying again. She’s crying, and Lexa won’t stop looking at her like that — like she’s practically holding out her bare, bruised, defenseless heart to Clarke at this moment — and Clarke’s losing her balance because she can see _every. Last. Truth. There._

It makes sense, that she could think running would be the way to handle any of this. The same way Clarke has been trying to cut Lexa out of her, shun the possibility of a _maybe someday them,_ together. Shoving every imaginable reason Lexa might not want her on top of the concept to smother it quiet, because she was afraid of making it worse.

Now, though, it’s painfully clear. It’s all been nothing but _torturous goddamn wasted effort_ , for both of them. 

Because Clarke can bend Lexa’s motives all she likes, but she knows she’ll never manage to cut her out completely.

And Lexa’s just confessed the rest of it to her. None of Clarke’s feelings were one-sided. 

She was never alone in any of this. 

Clarke closes the distance between them in a trembling, desperate rush, folding her arms around Lexa before anything within her can protest or fire a warning shot or prevent her from pulling her in. A tremor runs through Lexa and she exhales hard, sliding her hands around to Clarke’s back and _clutching_ , hanging on to her as if she were the last solid thing in the room.

They just hold each other, and let it all wash in, the hell of these last days, what it’s done to both of them. How ruthless and low the world feels at this moment for having wedged yet another obstacle between them — right when they’d gotten clear of some of what was blocking their way before.

Something echoes through Clarke, only this time it _bleeds. Of course you would choose Andromeda. Of course you would choose the one person who will always be on the far side of the sky._

She presses her lips to Lexa’s temple and breathes her in, filling her every last sense with the endless, gorgeous _wonder_ of Lexa. Her impossible strength. Her fierce hunger to _invent, design, reach, unite_ with her art. The roar of how it felt to kiss her, to be held so tightly against all that swelter and havoc and just _sink,_ melt away… 

And this. The infinitely gentle, honest _goodness_ of her. 

Because so much has tried to ruin her, and she just flat out refuses to budge. She won’t be taken down by any of it. When the dust settles, she’ll still be there — shoulders set — her true intentions clamped in both fists. She’ll still be saying exactly what she means, each and every time. 

Clarke just needs to learn how to listen better.

Lexa only hurt her because she was trying _not_ to hurt her. Clarke probably knew that already, deep down.

She shuts her eyes, and holds Lexa close, and thinks: _Of course you would choose her._

 _You’d choose her again and again and again. How could you ever not._

She realizes Lexa is saying something to her, repeating it in a broken whisper, mouthing the words into Clarke’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Clarke. I’m so sorry…”

 _Oh, god…_ An ache tears through her, and Clarke can only draw her arms tighter around Lexa. _I have to make this stop. I can’t stand up against this. It’s too much._ “Shhh…you’re okay. You’re okay…”

She doesn’t say _‘it’s okay’_ , or ‘we’re okay’ or even _‘I’m okay’_ , because she can’t possibly believe any of those right now. Not if this is actually going to end in Lexa _leaving._

_Fuck. Just don’t. Not yet. Stay here, Griffin. Don’t go down that road just yet…_

And it’s amazing how, even though she’s so shaken, Lexa is still able to wrestle her emotions down within mere minutes. Not hide them from sight, but just soften the impact, so that they can both catch their breath.

She loosens her grip around Clarke and eventually slides back until there’s a safer amount of space between them, but not enough that their legs aren’t still touching, that they can’t keep their fingers just barely intertwined.

They look at one another, a universe of unsaid things lingering in the air between them. 

Clarke finally chooses the one that ripples with the least potential. That is maybe less likely to completely open her up, spill what’s left of her onto the floor. “You’re positive there’s no other option to fix this? I mean, there has to be _something._ Fundraisers. Corporate sponsorships…something.”

After a few moments more, Lexa is able to answer her. “We’ve tried, but…those things take time and we’re…” She shakes her head, glancing down. “We’re in serious trouble, Clarke. If I don’t do this, I’ll have to sacrifice company members, and I won’t do that to them. This will buy enough time for Indra and I to secure a more permanent solution, and it will provide for things like increased salaries for the company, repairs that we need, upgrades we haven’t been able to afford…”

“But it will also take _you_ away,” Clarke argues. She tries to tamp down the seasick lurch that happens as soon as she says those words aloud. “For _three years_ , Lexa. Do you honestly think anyone in the company will be okay with that?” (She leaves out the question she really wants to ask, which is: _Do you honestly think I will be okay with that?)_

“I won’t be completely gone,” Lexa says, raising her eyes. Clarke can see just the tiniest kernel of hope still shining back there. It’s so small, but it’s there. Despite everything, Lexa is still fighting, still trying to spin this into a positive light, and it tears right through Clarke with brutal force. “I’ll be able to stay involved. I’ll be able to help.”

Clarke sighs heavily and rubs at her forehead. When she brings her hand back down, she presses her fingers against the soft skin of Lexa’s wrist, watching as Lexa inhales sharply at the touch, her gaze flying up to meet Clarke’s. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, Lexa. _You are Gonakru._ It begins and ends with you.” 

She leans forward, sharpening her focus. Because outside of what this means for her _(and god, she can’t even unpack what this means for her, not now)_ , she wants Lexa to see this, and she knows it’s not a thought Lexa would ever arrive at on her own. That’s just not who she is. “If you go, it would be like ripping the soul right out of the entire company.” She pauses and rubs her thumb along Lexa’s pulse point, feeling the steady thrum of it, how it immediately speeds up beneath her fingertips. “And I’m absolutely terrified that, if you do this…you could possibly lose yours, too.”

Lexa leans her head against the back of the couch, looking away. She’s quiet for a long time. Clarke just watches her, Lexa’s heartbeat pounding strong and sure in her grasp. 

When she speaks again, the pitch of her voice has dropped, and there’s a quality of surrender to her words that suddenly weighs everything down inside Clarke. “I’ll be placing them in the best hands possible. And I’ll still be with them, however I can.” She lets her eyes finally fall on Clarke. She slips out from the gentle hold on her wrist, taking Clarke’s hand between both of hers.

And then she leans down…and presses the softest, sweetest kiss into the center of Clarke’s palm. 

As she raises up, she folds Clarke’s fingers around the imprint of it. _Hold onto this. Keep it safe for me._

“But I made promises to my company, when _Gonakru_ began. That if they came with me, I would do everything I could to look out for them.”

She releases her, and stands up. And Clarke can see how Lexa is already struggling to gather herself in, close all the places where she’s still beaming through. “I have to keep my word.” She looks at Clarke as she slowly gathers her bag, sliding it over her shoulder like she’s shrugging on a shield, something to cover herself. “No matter what I want, or what might happen…I can’t let them down, Clarke.” 

Clarke stares at her, wishing the room would stop spinning, the clock would stop moving…that they could just fucking _stop, please, and run this again._ Take it all down to its bones and rebuild the story, because someone has really botched the ending of theirs. _And goddamn it, they should get another chance to set it right._

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

When Clarke is able to say something, it’s only her name. And it sounds a little bit like a plea, and far too much like goodbye. “Lexa…” 

Lexa shuts her eyes and holds up her hand between them. “We still have now,” she says softly. “We still have work to finish together.” She opens her eyes, finding Clarke. “We’re still here. Can that be enough, just for tonight?” 

She’s finally asking for what Clarke never thought she would. To put this down for now, because she just can’t go any further. Not anymore.

It’s the first time she’s ever seen Lexa quit.

It slaughters every last part of her still throwing punches. She feels it all falling over inside her, every hope run through, silenced. _An impossible situation._ The phrase curls through her mind, settles in and sinks like lead.

An impossible fucking situation, all of it. Pitting Clarke against the only thing Lexa can never turn her back on — the one place where she’ll always get left behind, when Lexa is forced to make a choice.

Clarke exhales slowly, and it feels like something heavier than breath escapes her. She nods.

Lexa swallows and ducks her head. “Okay,” Lexa finally says, choking down the word. She moves to the door. 

When she reaches it, she turns back. “I didn’t think this still lived in me,” she says quietly. “That I could look at you and feel…” She splays her hand across her chest and winces, pushing in, her eyes piercing right through Clarke. “ _This._ ”  


She takes a few quick breaths and lowers her gaze to the floor, overcome. When she goes on, Clarke can see she’s shaking. “I wish… _so much_ …that I had found you at any other time. I wish that this wasn’t where it has all led, and I’m so sorry for everything else about this…” She raises up, locking onto Clarke again, and taps her chest. “But _this_? I will never, ever regret. Because Clarke, I’m just so thankful I found you at all.”

If she had remained there a second longer, Clarke would have run to her. She would have flown across the room and held on, asked her to stay. _Consequences be damned, we’ll sort them out tomorrow. I can’t let you go now._

Lexa must have seen that. She must have wanted that just as badly, too. 

Which is why she doesn’t look back as she leaves.

Clarke watches the door close behind her, wondering if her heart will ever be able to finish breaking, if this is all she’s ever meant to have with Lexa. Nothing more than closing doors and exit scenes, a future where Lexa can never stop walking away from her. 

_An impossible situation._

Then…

She feels it. Something certain and unshakable staggers to its knees inside her, bloodied and swollen-eyed and _seething,_ baring its teeth.

In an instant, it clears her of every thought except one. If she’s learned anything in her whole messed up, jumbled life, it’s this: _Nothing_ is impossible. Fathers can die young. Lovers can be taken from you. You can suddenly become famous, and just as suddenly not. And at every turn and at any moment, you can lose so _hard_ it will leave you panting and sick, struggling to keep your knees from giving out. 

But one day, you can accidentally meet someone you thought might never exist, not for you, and she can change _everything_ inside. 

She might even manage to teach you a thing or two about not giving up.

_I can’t let go now. Not this time._

Clarke realizes that maybe this is what she’d been looking for earlier, when Lexa showed up tonight. Maybe this is the real fight she’s been waiting for, all along.

Because Lexa needs help. And knowing that has kicked something _ferocious_ awake within her.


	10. Hang On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand, we're back. 
> 
> Hi, everyone. I'm sorry this one took a bit longer to arrive than some of the previous chapters, but...this past month hasn't been very kind, and it held things up a minute. Also? These seem to keep getting longer as more things unfold, so I'm officially trying not to worry about that too much anymore. I've used up a lot of words, and I just hope some of them are good, and you like them. :)
> 
> I want to give HUGE and heartfelt thanks to Bellatores for the beta, for being so patient, and just generally putting up with me. You're a stellar person, and I'm so grateful for the help.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for sending me some love, and know it's sailing right back at you, every time you do. Take care of each other and take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a beautiful week ahead, friends. I'll see you in the next installment. (Which, if I don't muck it up too badly, miiiight be worth the ticket price. Just saying. Fingers crossed.) 
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of St. Vincent

“So, you honestly believe the Empress can maintain her neutrality around that weak little street rat?” Octavia asks, drawing her sword down in a fast, wicked arc toward Lincoln’s midsection.

Lincoln’s sword is already there, knocking away the attempt. “You underestimate Devin, if you think she’s weak. That’s not a wise move on your part, Emlyn. She’s much more than you give her credit for.” He swings at Octavia.

Octavia blocks the strike. “She _is_ weak. She does nothing but talk, talk, talk. Preying on any emotion she can stir in the Empress with her useless poet’s words. She’s weak —“ She thrusts her sword at Lincoln’s thigh, but he dodges it easily. “And she makes the Empress weak —“ She tries again, aiming at his shoulder, which he deflects. “And she’s a liability to us all.” Octavia revs up and smashes forward, pushing Lincoln back a half step. “We should just cut her down and be done with it.” 

From her spot offstage, Clarke watches as Octavia spins her wrist, her sword flipping up and slicing the air with a _whoosh_ before it clangs against Lincoln’s blade again.

She lifts an eyebrow and smirks. _Damn. Yeah, she’s totally got that nailed now. Show off._

Lincoln and Octavia are now moving stage right, sword blades crossed and stares locked, caught in a standoff. 

Clarke follows their gritted-teeth tussle across the stage…which brings Lexa into her sightline. 

She’s standing in front of the stage, arms folded, her gaze trained on Octavia and Lincoln, and the second Clarke sees her, it sets off that same tidal wave _swoop_ that always happens anytime her eyes settle on Lexa. 

She inhales against the sensation, swallowing roughly. _Alright. Progress. It’s starting to feel a little less like I’m falling through the floor every time I see her now._

When Clarke arrived at the theater this morning, the moment Lexa glanced up and found her, it nearly collapsed her on the spot. Lexa seemed to be having just as much trouble. They just stood there staring at each other across the stage, both of them struggling to breathe under the crushing pressure of all the things they had shared with each other last night, and Clarke could read what Lexa was saying without one word needing to pass between them. 

_Please don’t get too close. Not today. I can’t take it._

Clarke saw it right away. She hated it, she still hates it, but she understood. She needed the space, too, honestly. Last night cut so deep it feels like she may never heal over. If she drifts too near Lexa now, Clarke knows it will probably just leave her useless. Ruined, or bleeding out. She can’t give in, no matter how much she wants to. She needs to stay sharp. 

Even though they’ve maintained their distance all day, their awareness of each other’s presence has only swelled. It’s enhanced so much at this point it’s almost an entity itself, standing just off to the side as they navigate around each other, grinning and rolling its eyes. Laughing at their feeble attempts to not be rendered utterly crazy with _what-ifs_ any time their glances catch and hold. 

They’re keeping to the edges, sure. But they just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s vicinity altogether. (They also can’t seem to quit _watching_ each other. Wherever Clarke goes, she feels Lexa’s eyes on her.) 

When they’ve spoken, it’s been nothing but essentials only, exchanging whatever needs telling and getting out quick, pretending they can’t see how much they’re both shaking. It’s what they’re here to do, after all. Pretend. Disappear inside their roles, play their part in the work. It’s just what they have to do to keep the narrative going. _Clarke is supposed to act like she’s handling this. Lexa is here to try to show her how._

They’re right back where they started — just like it was in the beginning — and so far away from there, all at once. Both of them fighting so hard to shut down that constant, insistent _pull_ flowing between them, but still feeling it _everywhere_ inside. It’s stronger than ever now. 

At least this time, Clarke knows Lexa is there with her. There’s a strange, terrible comfort in knowing someone understands what it’s taking to fend this off, keep moving when everything else within her is telling her she’s going the wrong way.

Her gaze slides over Lexa again. She rides the current as it washes in, and sighs. 

Though Clarke’s senses might be reacting like they usually do, she can feel the change. Looking at Lexa…it’s the same, but it’s not _quite_ the same, as well. It’s lost that lightness it once held before. The lift and soar has been taken out, supplanted with something that just makes her feel _crowded._ She’s too full; Lexa has given her all this wondrous, unbearable, _monumental-as-fuck_ knowledge, and Clarke has nowhere to put it yet. 

_Lexa has feelings for her. And Lexa is leaving._

Overnight, it’s all grown into the size of a mob inside Clarke. And it’s fucking _angry_ , too — it’s looting her reactions, picking out the fluff, culling her down to her noisiest, most unruly parts. She needs to keep holding onto that, become nothing but thrown elbows and sirens and gates tearing off their hinges now. Embrace the rebellion and dig in. It’s too important. Because when she looks at Lexa, and feels all that rumble and mayhem barreling through her, it’s screaming one thing at Clarke, over and over, getting louder with each passing hour: _Hurry. You have to hurry._

She’s running out of time. 

She can’t afford to float in the _Lexa has feelings for her_ part of this. She wants to. _Christ_ , does she ever want to. But it’s only the _leaving_ she can focus on right now. She can’t fly _up_ , only _ahead_. She needs to stay in front of this thing, outpace it until she can find some order to any of it — latch on to what she can actually _do._ Or else the enormity of this situation will just take her down, pull her limb from limb. 

Because she can feel something ravenous surging up behind her, no doubt about that. Something that’s only teeth and claws and _Lexa is in trouble._ It’s roaring just off her heels, clamoring hard to catch up. 

And Clarke needs to figure out a way to beat it back before it’s too fucking late. 

In front of the stage, Lexa tracks Octavia and Lincoln as they stagger their way toward their next mark in this scene. She’s rolling her pen through her fingers at a furious pace, and every so often she’ll bounce up on her toes and back down again, shuffling anxiously. She seems like she’s still a bit nervous about all that sharp steel flying back and forth up there. (Clarke can’t blame her on that one.) 

“Cut her down and be done with it?” Lincoln scoffs, anger blooming across his face. “What we should do,” he argues, forcing Octavia backwards a few paces. “Is only as the Empress wishes. As always.” He bears down, leaning in hard, attempting to make Octavia drop her sword. “We don’t act unless she instructs us to. You’re speaking as if you don’t remember these things. Another unwise move for you.”

Arms straining with the effort, Octavia manages to break Lincoln’s hold, her blade sliding off and away from his. “You’d rather have us just stand by and wait for this to erupt?” She squares up into an attack stance again, her eyes skating over Lincoln, searching for somewhere to strike. “Because it will, I assure you. It’s dangerous to allow this to go on, Darius.”

Lincoln crouches slightly, preparing for Octavia’s next assault. “And I say the only danger is to get in her way, if this is what the Empress wants.”

At that line, Murphy enters from the wings, approaching the sparring warriors hesitantly. He clasps his hands in front of his chest, speaking to them in oily, disingenuous politician’s tones. “Apologies, generals, but I’ve been sent to bring you to the Empress. She’s called a council meeting, and she’d like an audience with both of you.”

Octavia and Lincoln halt their movements, shifting to cast matching scowls at him. 

Lincoln draws up and nods, but he doesn’t drop his defensive position or take his side eye off Octavia yet. “Very well. Thank you, Saul.”

Murphy bows his head and steps back, folding his hands behind him and glancing between the two. Neither of them are backing off yet, glaring at each other in tense silence.

After a moment more, Octavia slowly lowers her sword. “You know I’m right,” she says to Lincoln. 

“I know you believe you are,” Lincoln counters, finally standing down, as well. 

They continue their staring match, sizing each other up across the line that has now been drawn between them.

“Okay, good…” Lexa cuts in, holding up a hand. “Let’s stop here. Well done everybody.” 

She hoists herself onto the stage and makes her way over to Lincoln and Octavia, which brings her within a few feet of Clarke. And even though Clarke’s trying not to stare, she knows she is. _(She can tell Lexa does, too, from the way she keeps shuffling and fumbling as she talks with them.)_

“…And also? Really great work with that transition,” Lexa says as she backs away, motioning to Octavia. 

Octavia ducks her head and smiles. “Thanks. Can’t take too much credit, though.” She lifts up and gently elbows Lincoln beside her. “This guy makes it a lot easier out there.” 

Lincoln gives Octavia a pleased grin and leans into her slightly, beaming both at the praise, and O herself. 

Despite everything, it makes Clarke smile a bit. Though it’s not too obvious, _(O wouldn’t allow this thing to get anywhere near “ugh, gross, you two”, no way)_ , there’s definitely a fuzzier, warmer dynamic between Lincoln and Octavia now. It’s that inescapable glow of new love softness, and Clarke can’t help but feel a little moment of _“D’aaww…”_ when she sees it. _(Especially when she can also see how it’s managed to smooth some of the spikiness in her best friend, though that’s something she’d never, ever say out loud. She’s already got enough to deal with. She can’t spare the energy it would take to shovel her way out of whatever dark, dank pit O would drop her in if she dared to share that observation.)_

And it’s because she’s still staring _(and god, can’t seem to make herself stop, no matter what she tries)_ that Clarke spots how Lexa notices, too — watching O and Lincoln just a bit too long while she moves away from them. A small, wishful glimmer crosses her expression before she closes off again.

As she turns to head upstage, Lexa stops mid stride. Her shoulders droop. 

For just a moment, Clarke sees the war they’re both fighting rise to the surface — the parts of Lexa telling her to _shut this down, keep moving_ clashing with the radioactive raw nerves of everything that’s reaching across the stage for Clarke. 

She finally gives in and looks over, meeting Clarke’s eyes.

Clarke takes a ragged, deep breath. Lexa must be able to tell what she’s thinking already. It has to be right out there in the open. 

_I know. Me, too._

Lexa’s jaw flexes. She squints and then has to cut the connection completely, glancing up at the ceiling as she continues her path across the stage. “Okay, everyone, that’s lunch…” she calls to the room. Her voice breaks at the end.

And only then does Clarke realize she’s stopped breathing. She exhales in a hard rush and gasps, feeling the dizzy, mutinous sway of _Lexa_ rolling through her all over again. Her eyes squeeze shut as she struggles to regain some equilibrium. _Fuck._

_Ahead, not up. Remember that._

Clarke forces her eyes open and marches toward her dressing room — moving fast, trying to stifle that insistent, shouting urge to _stop, look back, go to her…_

She wills the volume down as she goes, spinning the same pervading thought in a dozen directions to hone her concentration, instead. _How do I stop this from happening?_

Before she can even make it offstage, though, she betrays herself, and checks in on Lexa one last time. 

Spies her walking up the aisle alone, head down, moving toward the lobby doors at the back of the theater. _(She knows Lexa will probably hide in her office until they start up again.)_

It conjures a vision for her: _A line of solitary footprints across a tundra, the landscape stretching out corpse bleached and barren for miles._

And as she watches Lexa go, Clarke swears she can feel something gaining on her, growling just over her shoulder. A cold ripple of fear trickles through her gut.

 _Hurry._

*********************

“So are you going to fucking tell me what’s going on, already, or do I just have to keep watching you drag around and suffer all day?” Octavia asks, collapsing on their dressing room couch.

Clarke sits up in her chair, turning to look at her.

“Because you keep telling me you’re okay,” O continues, reclining against the back of the couch and folding her arms behind her head. “But you’ve been sitting here like a damn stone for the last twenty minutes, staring at the same spot on the wall, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you’ve suddenly decided to take up zen fucking meditation, Clarke.”

Clarke frowns and lowers her head, absently swiping her hand over a minor rip in the knee of her jeans. _I can’t tell you what’s going on, O. Not this time._

Octavia had stayed at Lincoln’s place last night, steering clear of their loft after Lexa showed up. It was an enormously considerate gesture on O’s part, because Clarke knows she hates sleeping anywhere other than her own bed, regardless of how much she might like the company she’s bunking down with somewhere else. But it also meant Clarke has been having to sidestep O’s questions and frequent check-ins since the moment rehearsal began, and it’s not getting any easier to keep lying to her as the day wears on.

She wants to tell her. _Fuck_ , she would love to be able to let some of this out, unburden herself a little, because this is all just _so much_ to lug around on her own. But she just can’t. Lexa asked her to not to. So instead, she’s had to stick to only: _“we talked, and we’re working through some stuff.”_ That’s all she’s been able to give to O so far. It was the closest form of the truth she could come up with.

Clarke raises up and shakes her head, dragging a frail smile onto her face before she meets Octavia’s eyes again. “Really, I’m okay, O. I just have a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Octavia peers at her. “Understatement of the entire goddamn day,” she mutters after a moment, gaze narrowed skeptically. Her willingness to keep after this seems to fade, transforming into something that looks mostly bored and over it and maybe just a little bit pissed at Clarke. “Alright, then…” She stretches out her arms and slowly rises to her feet. “If you don’t want to talk now, then fine. I’ll leave you to your staring. But don’t think we’re not picking this up again later.”

“There’s nothing to —“

Octavia flings up her hands, fluttering them in a burst of quick movements to shush Clarke. “Nuh-uh. Don’t bother. You know that shit won’t work on me, so just hold onto it for some other chump around here, okay?”

She begins to walk out the door, then leans down, grabbing something from beside the couch. “Ah, yeah. Forgot.” She holds out a paper bag to Clarke. “Lincoln bought a grilled cheese for you from _Three Owls._ He said you looked like you could use some comfort food.”

Clarke’s smile widens just a fraction. She takes the bag from O and gives her a short, grateful nod, holding her eyes — hoping Octavia will take it as the peace offering she intends for having to turn her away again this time. “Tell him thanks for me?”

Octavia tilts her head and watches her, then finally just shrugs. It appears as if she’s actually going to let Clarke off the hook for now. “Will do,” she sighs, heading out the door.

Clarke stares at the bag in her hands. _I need so much more than a greasy grilled cheese to make this better. I need a fucking plan._

A thought occurs to her. _Intel. Start there._

And just like that, she knows where she needs to go.

**************************

“I need you to tell me everything you can about Nia,” Clarke says, flopping down onto a chair in Echo’s dressing room.

Echo blinks in rapid succession and tries to gloss over the edgy panic that floods across her face the second she hears Clarke’s question. She laughs breathily, her voice rising an octave. “Why would you want to know anything about her?” 

_For as easily as she can slip into character, she’s absolute rubbish at lying._ With an impatient sigh, Clarke shifts in her chair and pins Echo with a _stop bullshitting me_ stare. “Listen, you don’t have to do that, okay? Lexa told me.”

At that, Echo schools the fake, too-wide smile she’s slapped on and slumps forward, propping her chin in her hand. “I see.” She rests with this for a moment, then gives Clarke a look that’s still a tiny bit alarmed, but easing closer to _pity._ “I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything before.”

Clarke is quick to dismiss her. She doesn’t want pity. She wants something she can _use._ “It’s…I get it. It’s fine,” she replies, squirming against the unforgiving press of this… _god, fucked up chair_ against her shoulder blades. _Holy shit, this is super uncomfortable._

“Anyway, that’s not important right now,” she resumes. “I need to know what she’s like, Echo. I need to know what Lexa’s signing up for.” She scoots forward and rearranges her hips against the chair. _Seriously, what is up with this thing? Ugh. It feels like it wants to snap me in half…_

“Nia is…” Echo begins, drumming her fingers against her chin. “Well, she’s powerful. Tremendously driven.” Her fingers still as she focuses up. “So smart. Understands the business better than just about anyone. She’s been working in the industry since —”

“I don’t want her resume, Echo. I want you to tell me what I should be worried about.” Clarke frowns. “More worried about,” she amends.

Echo studies her. When she begins talking, she sorts her words with precision, as if reluctant to part with them. “She’s been mostly good to me. Nia has come through on every promise she’s ever given me. She’s made a lot of people famous, you know.”

Clarke lifts an eyebrow and stares at Echo, trying hard to summon her best Indra impersonation. That look that says, without question: _For Christ’s sake, get to it. I do not have the patience._

Gratefully, it sticks. 

“But I’m pretty sure that’s only because those people never disagreed with her,” Echo hurries on, turning away to face the mirror. She’s acting as if she’s afraid Nia might have the room bugged or something, speaking quietly and fidgeting with an eyeliner pencil on the vanity counter, her eyes gone restless and worried. “If you work for her, she’ll take care of you to a certain degree, but…she doesn’t like being challenged.”

 _Now we’re getting somewhere._ “What do you mean?” Clarke presses. She shifts again, feeling the chair bite into her lower back now. _These fucking things must be Anya’s doing. She’s the right shade of sadist to put something like this in Echo’s dressing room._

“Well…here’s a good example,” Echo says, sitting up straighter and finally looking at Clarke again. “I have this friend. She was on the show our first season, right? And there was an episode where her character was supposed to be involved in a pretty graphic love scene.” 

She trails off and hangs in the memory for a moment, then gives a listless shrug. “She’d never done anything like that before, you see, and when she was hired, she was told it was something she wouldn’t have to do, either. So she was incredibly nervous about it. Scared, you know? It can be terrifying.”

Clarke nods. She’s done love scenes before, but they were _so tame_ compared to the places the cable networks go. Even still, anytime she had to film one of them, it would give her so many jitters she’d usually wind up sweaty and low-key nauseous all day, which must have been a _killer_ bonus for anyone lucky enough to be in the scene with her. _(Hi, I’m Clarke. I’ll be your slightly damp scene partner today. If I could just ask that you not jostle me too much while you’re ravishing me, that would be great. It’s best for both of us, really…)_

Because, yeah, it’s really fucking unnerving, stripping down to your skivvies and being surrounded by a room full of production staff and crew members. Everybody staring — some of them at least trying to act like they’re not staring, others just blatantly staring, not giving a shit how much they’re creeping you out. All those hot, garish lights pointed at your every blemish and flaw, cameras zoomed in close. It can rattle anybody. _(Plus, it’s exceptionally difficult to maintain the illusion you’re into someone with a random camera guy parked right over your shoulder, leering and mouth breathing on you the whole way.)_

“She tried to talk to the writers about it at the table read,” Echo continues. “But none of them would listen to her. She tried to talk to our director about it, and he just laughed at her.” She sighs and twirls the eyeliner pencil again, her gaze coloring with something bitter. “So by the time we got close to actually filming the episode…she was so desperate. I mean, no one _cared_ , you know? And she was just asking for a small compromise, really. Toning it down a little, that’s all. But they refused. So, finally, she got so fed up with the situation that she just told the director she wasn’t going to do it.”

Echo tucks her chin down. “He called Nia. And my friend…she was so surprised, because Nia actually showed up. Heard her out. Told her _‘don’t worry, she’ll take care of it.’”_ Her words are clipped now, her voice growing duller. 

She pauses, staring at the countertop. “Within the week, the episode had been rewritten. And instead of a love scene, her character was just killed off. Nia had the writers wipe her out completely.” She snaps her fingers. “Just… _poof._ Gone.”

“Holy hell,” Clarke mutters. Even by Hollywood standards _(which, in Clarke’s estimation, usually swim somewhere around the level of bottom-feeding sucker fish)_ — that’s low. 

“Yeah. But it didn’t just stop there,” Echo says, pushing up slightly. “Not only did she find herself abruptly fired, but Nia also sent out some kind of red flag about her, all over town.” She shakes her head, her hand curling into a fist against her knee. “She couldn’t get any work after that. Anytime she’d get a lead or go to an audition, by the time she showed up, she’d find that Nia had already been there. _‘Sorry, we’re going a different way this time. Not the right project for your type.’_ All those ways of saying no we’ve all heard, over and over and over. And all of it led back to Nia. She completely froze her out. Destroyed her career. Simply because she stood up for herself. Or, more precisely, because she tried to tell Nia no.”

Echo looks up and meets Clarke’s eyes. “So, yes. She’s made me a celebrity. Given me everything I thought I ever wanted when I started out in this business.” She reaches over and pats Clarke’s leg, and it’s only at that moment Clarke realizes it’s gone suspiciously numb while they’ve been talking. “But it’s cost me, Clarke. I’m tied to Nia now. I can’t get away until she’s ready to let me go, or I’ll end up just like that, too.”

“Jesus Christ. Does Lexa know about all of this?”

“She does. When she first told me Nia was interested in her for the job, I tried to persuade her not to do it. But Lexa assured me she could handle it, she could fall in line if she had to.” A shadow of apologetic sympathy creeps into her eyes again as she regards Clarke. “She said she would sacrifice anything short term to protect her company.”

 _Of course she did. Goddamn it, Lexa._

Clarke stuffs down her irritation _(at Lexa, mainly — but also that damn spaniel-eyed, sorry-for-her thing Echo keeps pulling)_ as best as she can while she sorts through this new information. She already knew Nia wielded some heavy influence in L.A. by reputation alone. Hearing this, though…it pretty much tips the scales from dismal to _‘well, fuck.’_

She was worried for Lexa before, because Clarke knows what it’s like to be stuck in the grind of working on a TV show you don’t really care about. Working on _anything_ you don’t care about — it steals from you, every day. Gnaws you down, compromise by compromise, leaves you just clinging to scraps. Though she’d undoubtedly put up one hell of a fight, even someone as strong as Lexa could get worn away by that, if she’s subjected to it long enough. And that’s not something Clarke would ever let Lexa risk, not if she can help it. But if Nia has this kind of power, it certainly ups every stake at play here. 

Because it means Nia isn’t just trouble. She’s _dangerous._

Clarke realizes Echo is still waiting for her to say something, and she shakes herself out of her thoughts, concentrating on her initial gut reaction to Echo’s dilemma. (It’s nearly as awful as the one she’s already grappling with.) 

“Echo, that’s…god, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought you _liked_ working on your show.” As she leans her weight off her numb leg to try to coax some feeling back into it, the chair pinches into her shoulders again. With a huff, she slides off the chair, glaring at it. “Okay, honestly. What is the damn deal with these chairs? Is this one broken or something?”

A wrinkle of confusion pops up along Echo’s forehead as she tries to follow the abrupt U-turn in their conversation. “No. No, they’re supposed to be like that. They’re ergonomic. They encourage good posture.” Underneath the outermost layer of puzzlement in her tone, there’s a note to it that seems to imply: _“Obviously. Duh.”_

“Really? What posture is that? The letter ‘C’?” Clarke rubs her tailbone. “Jesus, I think I’m going to have a bruise…” She folds her arms across her chest and flicks a disgusted hand at the chair. “Those are terrible. Just saying. We should burn those immediately. I don’t know if I can stand by and let you keep doing this to yourself, Echo.”

Clarke’s fussy outburst seems to lift Echo’s spirits a little. She sprouts a wary half-grin, eyes shimmering with fond amusement. 

And Clarke feels some remote part of her shrug its shoulders, finally drop its guard, and just grin right back. _Who would have ever thought that one day, I’d actually become friends with Echo North? Life can be incredibly fucking strange sometimes._

She angles her head and peers at Echo, sobering again. _And sometimes, it’s just incredibly fucking unfair._ “I am sorry, though. I don’t want you stuck somewhere you don’t want to be, either.”

Echo’s gaze drops to the floor, dragging her expression along with it. “It’s my own fault. I should have been more careful, in the beginning. I was too blind, too wrapped up in my own ambition.” She looks up at Clarke, a hint of a smile reappearing. “It’s actually been better since Lexa started working on the show. I mean, she’s hardly ever there, she only comes in when she absolutely has to, but…” 

She lifts up some more, and her smile deepens. “The way she writes…she’s so clever about it, you know? She’s been overhauling the show in exceptionally quiet ways, planting seeds, shaping up storylines, things like that. She’s so much smarter than everyone else involved with it, and I’m delighted to watch her work.” Echo pauses and regards Clarke. “She really is amazing.”

Clarke manages to maintain the look that passes between them for only a second or two before she has to retreat, studying the far wall of Echo’s dressing room, instead. She knows what Echo is offering her with that look. The chance to open up, tell her exactly how amazing Lexa is. _(Or if she’s really in a sharing mood, maybe to let go and gush about how much Lexa can make her feel entirely unhinged and almost invincible, all at once, because that particular thought has been chasing Clarke all day.)_

No, Echo is just extending the chance to talk some of this through, with someone who is willing to listen, and — for the first time since she’s known her — Clarke is certain she’s doing it out of kindness, and not some underhanded desire to gather dirt on someone else. Which is something she never thought she’d be sure of where Echo is concerned.

But Clarke can’t linger in that space right now. So she opts for the simplest response. The one that’s still honest, but keeps the rest of it out of sight. 

“No argument there.”

When their eyes meet again, she can see Echo catches the message. She moves on with a nearly imperceptible nod. “It’s funny to think about it now, but if I hadn’t already known who Lexa was when she came to work on _Night Moves_ , she probably wouldn’t have ever spoken to me at all.”

Clarke quirks a quizzical eyebrow at her.

“She showed up with this whole secret identity guise in place,” Echo says, chuckling softly. “But I’d actually been to a few shows at _Gonakru_ before. I knew who she was the moment she walked in the door. I didn’t say anything at first, but…she just seemed so lonely, you know? She was so reserved around everybody.” 

She pauses, something remote flickering across her face. “So finally one day I couldn’t stand it anymore and just told her. And when I asked her about _Gonakru_ …my god, Clarke. It was like flipping a switch, the way she woke up.” 

That brings a small, pained smile to Clarke’s face.

“The more she told me about this place…” Echo says, motioning to the dressing room. “I didn’t think it existed, something like this. The way she talks about her company. That kind of unity and respect. She loves this theater so much, and she _adores_ her people. I’d never seen anything like it before.”

She looks at Clarke again, sadness darkening her voice. “It gave me hope. To know there could be something better out there. Because — at some point — Nia will be done with me. Someday, I won’t be profitable to her anymore. When that happens, at least now I realize there’s a chance something better will be waiting for me to find it. Maybe I’ll even find it here, who knows? But…I didn’t really believe I _could_ until I met Lexa.”

There’s a break after that, both of them wandering away to contemplate all of this. Clarke guesses they’re probably circling back around to the same subject, though — the threat of Lexa’s absence in their lives. Maybe that’s why they both look so miserable right now. 

Clarke snaps out of it first, trying to lift the mood a bit, even if only for Echo’s benefit. She wills a grin onto her face. “She has a way of knocking over your perceptions, that’s for sure.” 

Echo’s not quite ready to let go yet. She just nods glumly, her eyes still downcast. 

Clarke’s grin vanishes. “Thank you for filling me in. I mean it.” 

At least this time, she actually responds. “Of course. I’d like to help. Even if it means losing Lexa at _Night Moves_ …” Echo pauses, twisting her mouth into a pout as she considers her next thought. “I’m afraid for her. If there’s a way out of this, I hope you find it. Because if Lexa does this, she’ll have to work much more closely with Nia, and regardless of what she says, I doubt Lexa will back down when they inevitably disagree down the road.”

 _Oh, that’s absolutely true. Lexa’s far too stubborn. She won’t be able to help herself._

Echo stares up at Clarke, her expression dimming down even further, sliding into plain, limp dread. “Nia has money and connections Lexa can’t possibly defend herself against. If Lexa pushes back, Nia will bring _Gonakru_ down, I just know it. She’ll figure out a way to run it into the ground. She understands what this company means to Lexa, and Nia always goes for the places where a person’s heart beats the hardest. She fights to win. It’s what’s kept her in power at _Azgeda_ all these years. I’ve never seen her lose before, Clarke.”

Clarke takes a breath, feeling something sour and frightened flare in her chest not only at the warning, but the dispirited way Echo’s looking at her right now. There’s something in Echo’s sad, distant eyes that just reads like: _You poor thing, you’ve barely got a chance here, can’t you see?_

She tamps down hard on all that sickly, familiar fear, clenching her jaw. _Nope. Don’t give in to that._

_Lexa is in trouble._

_Don’t. Give. Up._

When Clarke’s eyes refocus on Echo, they’re shining lava bright, and just as lethal. Ready to burn right through anyone who dares to try and take one more thing from Lexa. Not while she’s on watch. 

“First time for everything, right?” 

******************

Clarke leans into the doorway of Lincoln’s dressing room, pulling his attention away from the script notes he’s going over. She makes a quick scan of the room. “You alone?”

Lincoln nods warily.

Clarke steps inside, shutting the door behind her. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Lincoln replies, setting down his script and leaning back in his chair. He gives Clarke a sheepish glance, his eyebrows drawing together. “Actually…I gotta be up front about something, okay? Lexa already told me she talked to you, so maybe I should ask how much you’re going to yell at me first.”

He gestures to the couch against the opposite wall, anyway, silently inviting Clarke to sit.

“No yelling,” Clarke assures him in a tired tone, folding her legs beneath her as she settles onto the couch. She looks at him for a moment. “I know you’ve been put in a tough spot, Lincoln. It’s okay.”

Lincoln relaxes, the line of his shoulders sagging. “Okay. Good. This has been hard enough to deal with. I didn’t want you to be mad at me, too.” He finishes with a small, troubled smile for Clarke, his eyes telling her how sorry he is, and how much he hates all of this right along with her. The smile falls away, but the rest of it hangs on. “It’s just so messed up.”

“Oh, it’s well past messed up,” Clarke says, staring down at her hands and folding them together. “We’re nearly getting into a goddamn Grecian tragedy at this point.” She pauses, deciding if she wants to tempt walking down this path or not. “Did Lexa…?” She looks at Lincoln again. “I mean, did she tell you about…?” She trails off anxiously. She’s not sure how to approach this, especially not with Lincoln. His gentle, supportive nature always has a way of disarming her, and she just can’t spare the full key change into _feelings_ territory right now.

Lincoln helps her out. “We didn’t go into a lot of details, it’s not like that,” he says, waving his hands at her. “We’re close, but…you know Lexa wouldn’t share anything too personal with me, right? She just said she told you about what’s going on with _Gonakru._ ” He pauses, his face growing more solemn. “I sort of guessed it was probably more than that, with the way you two have been acting today.”

After a moment, Clarke nods and lets out a breath, swallowing against the ache in her throat. _Don’t you even. No tears. If you start that now, you’ll never stop._ “Yeah,” she says. 

The scrape of that one word must tell Lincoln everything. He leans forward and blankets his hand over Clarke’s, which very nearly causes her to lose her _“not gonna cry”_ battle the second he makes contact. She can’t look at him, staring at the floor instead.

“Are you okay?” Lincoln asks quietly.

Clarke closes her eyes and squeezes his hand, then turns back, forcing a quivery smile. She doesn’t answer him. She’s reasonably sure he already knows, anyway, from the somber way he’s watching her. “I’m trying to figure this out.”

Lincoln’s eyebrow lifts. He shifts back, attempting to follow her. 

“To see if there’s something we can do to keep this from happening, I mean,” Clarke explains. She sits up, resting her elbows on her knees and meeting his gaze, intent. “But I need your help, Lincoln. I need facts, numbers. A place to start. How much trouble is _Gonakru_ really in? Do you know?”

“I don’t, not really,” Lincoln says, shaking his head slowly. “Not like you’re talking about. Lexa just said we don’t have enough to cover the budget for next season. But Indra and Lexa are really the only ones who ever handle budget things around here. So, no, I can’t give you the exact figures.”

“Can you find out? Like, without Indra or Lexa getting suspicious? I don’t really want either of them to know I’m looking into this until I have something to show them.”

“Maybe, yeah,” Lincoln replies, turning over the request in his head. “I can definitely try, but…” He focuses on her. “Honestly, Clarke? I don’t know if there’s something to even find. I don’t think Lexa would be doing this unless they’d already tried every other available option.”

Clarke drops her head, twining her fingers together as she considers this. “That could be true,” she admits softly. She shoves that away, pushing back up. “But maybe there’s somewhere they haven’t looked yet.”

Lincoln stares at her, and Clarke can see all the doubt whirring behind his eyes. He’s searching for a way to let her down easy. 

She cuts him off before he gets there. “I have to try.” Her voice is low, and serious. She’s not arguing this point. 

“Alright,” Lincoln relents, rubbing his forehead and sighing. “I’ll see what I can do.” He motions in the direction of the stage. “Let me do some digging this afternoon while they’re distracted. I’ll tell you what I find.”

“Thank you,” Clarke replies, patting his knee. “Seriously. Thank you so much, Lincoln.”

There’s a lull then, Lincoln eyes flitting down in contemplative silence. “Even if this has to happen,” he finally begins, hesitating as he forms the thought. “It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s no chance of you and Lexa…” He stops, finding Clarke again. “There’s such a thing as long-distance relationships, you know.”

Clarke feels something tighten behind her ribs — that towing force that compels her to head towards Lexa, wherever she’s waiting, all the time. _That might actually be more impossible for me to deal with, if I allowed myself to think about it._

_But you can’t at the minute. So fucking don’t, Clarke._

She squints and looks away, taking a moment before she returns to Lincoln. “That’s not why…” Clarke pauses, redirecting her habitual response. She might as well be honest now. There’s no need to hide this from Lincoln. _(There never was, really. Lincoln’s been cheering this on from the start.)_ “It’s not _just_ that. This is where Lexa should be, you know? This is her home, and all of you are her family, and if she has to leave that behind to go work for…”

She shakes her head and exhales roughly. “I’ve lived in that world, okay? It’s shallow and cutthroat and it’s only about dollar signs and selling useless shit to the masses. That’s all it is, no matter how anyone tries to spin it. And Lexa is about to sign on with one of the best players in the game. Nia has chewed up and discarded plenty of people to get where she is. She wouldn’t hesitate to do the same thing to Lexa.”

Scowling, Lincoln folds his arms, absorbing what she’s said.

Clarke goes on, a tremor creeping into her voice. “This is so much bigger than what it means for me. This is about what it means for Lexa, what she’s putting on the line.” Her gaze drops and she finds herself blinking back tears all over again, the magnitude of what she’s fighting for hitting her squarely in the chest. She grips the edge of the couch with shaking hands and struggles through it. “I can’t stand the idea of that happening to her. To any of you. So, if there’s a way for me to stop this, I’m going to find it.”

After a moment, Lincoln reaches out, grasping Clarke’s shoulder lightly. “I know you will, Clarke,” he soothes. “I know.” Even after he releases her, Clarke can still feel him watching. But she just can’t bring herself to face the concerned, soft-hearted compassion she knows she’ll find there. Not now. It will take her right under.

Lincoln seems to understand. When he speaks, his inflection is brighter, laced with a touch of teasing. “Besides, Octavia showed me some clips from your old show.”

Clarke composes herself as much as she can and finally looks up, tilting her head at him in confusion.

“I’ve seen you in action now, _Sky Girl_ ,” Lincoln says, flashing a grin. “If anyone can save us all, it’s you.”

That pulls an uneven laugh out of Clarke. She shakes her head and tries to veer toward the opening Lincoln’s given her here, calling up a tiny bit of bravado from somewhere, even if she can’t quite feel it right now. “I know, right? They don’t even know who they’re tangling with.”

Lincoln’s grin lights up. “Atta girl.” He holds out a fist to her. 

Clarke fist bumps him back, meeting his gaze and smiling in an effort to convey how grateful she is. She cocks an eyebrow. “My sidekick is totally fired for letting you watch that, by the way.”

“What? No, you were a complete badass, Clarke. You’ve got to wear that with pride.” He waits a beat, then snickers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial volume. “Better not let her hear you calling her a sidekick, though.” 

“God, isn’t that the fucking truth,” Clarke agrees, laughing more fully now. She points at him and winks. “Smart guy. You’re catching on quick, Lincoln.” 

**********************

“I cannot believe you would attempt something this reckless, Devin,” Echo hisses, waving a tattered piece of parchment at Clarke. “Petitioning _Saul_ for help behind my back? Saul is nothing more than a jackal. He picks through the carrion of my council for anything, anything that can advance his influence, and you were willing to place your fate in his hands?” Echo crumples the parchment in her fist, squeezing so hard the ropy line of muscle along her forearm stands out. “If I hadn’t intercepted Darius with this, you could have been dead by nightfall.”

Clarke pushes forward, moving to within a few feet of Echo. She gives her a look so searing and furious it could almost incinerate Echo where she stands. “What other option did I have, really? Wait for your council to finish their ceremonial bickering and end up dead in three days’ time, anyway? Or try to enlist Saul’s help, which might at least offer the possibility of me actually surviving this?”

Infuriated, Echo growls out a huff and steps away, shaking her head. She begins to prowl back and forth, stewing, her eyes leveled on Clarke.

Clarke stands her ground. “It could also potentially spare me having to suffer in here any longer, unable to do anything but wait while your council chants and calls to their gods and tosses my life between them as if it were nothing more than a paltry wager in a game of chance.” She goes in for a blow intended to wound, her voice quieting, cut with a tinge of exhausted desperation. “Even if I had died tonight, Sabine, at least this would be _over_.”

Echo’s steps falter and she freezes. She recovers within a quick intake of breath, resuming her pacing, but she keeps her eyes on the stage floor. “I’ve explained to you the importance of custom among the council,” she says lowly, struggling to keep the waver out of her words. “Even if I don’t always subscribe to their beliefs, I must respect them. They will not deliberate with me unless I grant them that. As Empress, I must uphold our ways.”

Clarke sighs loudly and turns away, moving upstage, her back to Echo. It brings her directly in line with Lexa, who is sitting in the middle of the front row. She’s leaning forward in her seat, eyes up, fingers steepled beneath her chin, holding herself as still as possible. She’s trying to blend in to the scenery to avoid distracting them, but — inevitably — Clarke’s gaze is drawn right down to her, anyway. 

There’s an impermeable quality to the way she’s watching them — nothing new in Lexa’s repertoire — but Clarke notices a veneer of _effort_ to it this time. When Lexa’s eyes connect with hers, Clarke can see how hard she’s battling to keep up the front, hold everything in check. _Focus on the work_ , that look is saying. _Focus._

So Clarke tries. “And we’ve arrived where we always do, once again,” she says, pulling herself away from Lexa and pivoting to face Echo. “What you must do as Empress.” She pauses, her eyes roaming over the actress.

 _I can do this._

This scene requires a change in strategy for Devin — one that has always caused Clarke’s blood pressure to scream skyward when they’ve rehearsed it before, knowing Lexa was in the background looking on. Today, though…it’s already got Clarke’s palms sweating and her guts knotted _tight_. Maneuvering her way through this might not be something she’s up for yet; her emotions are so butchered she can’t quite trust they’ll get her anywhere in range of _believable_ here. 

Because Devin’s circumstances are far too dire at this moment to not try every available trick up her sleeve, so she’s about to play a little dirty. And as Clarke saunters toward Echo, she’s trying like hell to smother the image of those green eyes trailing her in order to summon the right mood for this. 

Then something hits her. _Except maybe that’s exactly what you should be thinking about._

Before she can deliberate herself out of it, Clarke just surrenders to the idea. She inhales slowly, looks over at Echo, and for only a moment…she imagines Lexa, instead. Lets every pent-up emotion shudder free, flip across her brain like a movie montage, light her up. _Lexa watching her, Lexa reaching for her, Lexa kissing her like the world was burning down…_

And suddenly all her anxiety drops away, her motivation snaps right into place, and she’s _there_ in an instant, slipping into that feeling of _well…well…well, what have we here?_ that she needs right now.

Clarke’s expression clouds with something twitchy and underfed. Predatory. 

“I wonder…” she drawls, folding her hands behind her back as she walks. “…what you might do if you were only acting as _Sabine?”_

Echo’s head comes up, and her pace slows. She glances at Clarke with some trepidation when she notes her proximity, the changed rhythm of her words. 

As soon as she sees Clarke’s face, she halts completely. 

“You know there is no divide between the two.”

“Is that really true, though?” Clarke asks, passing within a hand’s breadth of Echo. When their eyes meet, she smirks before sliding away again, continuing her deliberate, steady trek around the stage. 

“Because when you tell me what’s preventing you from intervening in this, you invariably say it’s because of your duty as the Empress, every time.” 

She circling Echo now. Echo’s eyes are fastened on her, following her movements carefully. 

“When you speak of what holds you back…” Clarke says, dropping her tone, letting the rasp of it come through. “…you place the blame on your position. You never mention what choice you would make, beyond the mantle you wear.” 

As she moves in behind Echo, Clarke stops, drawing closer. 

Echo turns her head to the side, keeping Clarke firmly in her sights over her shoulder. 

They stare at each other in a silence so thick it practically _sprawls_ across the stage. 

Slowly…oh so slowly…Clarke eases even closer, gaze traveling along the sinewy slope of Echo’s neck, leaving only inches of space between them. It causes Echo’s breathing to hitch. 

She places her lips near Echo’s ear, her voice lowering to a soft purr. “So I think there’s more of a divide than you’re perhaps willing to say, Sabine.”

Echo slams her eyes shut on the word _“Sabine”_ , as if hearing that name has fractured something inside. The measured rise and fall of her chest trips again, speeding up. 

A languid, knowing smile spreads across Clarke’s face as she watches Echo, marveling at her reactions. At this moment, she’s looking at Echo exactly like a thing who lives and dies by _hunt_ and _feed_ would: like Echo has already succumbed to this, and Clarke is already holding the rich, beautiful flavor of Echo’s downfall in her mouth, savoring it. 

Like maybe Clarke’s finally discovered where Echo has been hiding all this time, and she’s about to chase her right out into the open. 

So she goes in for the final strike, narrowing her intensity with all the _prey drive_ heat she can call up. Her lips hover over Echo’s neck, a mere breath away from nuzzling the delicate skin there. “Haven’t you ever wanted something just for yourself?” 

Echo exhales in a heavy rush and drops her head forward, her fingers opening and closing at her sides. 

Clarke shifts around to face her, darkened eyes darting across Echo’s profile. 

“Haven’t you ever once wanted something so badly…” She steps so, so close to her again — _almost_ pressing up against Echo, but not quite — and just… _waits._ “…you’d dare reach past the Empress to take it?”

The moment suspended between them stretches out, pounding like a heartbeat.

Echo’s eyes flutter open. 

They search each other for any sign of how this will end. No matter which path Echo sends them on right now, something is about to change here. 

And when Echo finally wrenches herself a few steps away, Clarke’s face absolutely _crumbles_ with disappointment. She can see Echo is already working to close herself off again, draw _The Empress_ back from wherever she’s gone.

“Even if…” Echo bites through whatever she’s about to say and turns back, letting her eyes wander over Clarke for just the barest span of seconds. 

As soon as Clarke looks up, Echo looks away, staring at the far wall of the theater. When she speaks again, her voice has regained its smooth, regal timbre. “What I _want_ no longer exists for me. I am only the needs of my people now. I can never be more than that. Or less.” 

Clarke walks to the opposite corner of the stage, folding her arms across her middle, head bowed. “Which means you and I will never move on from this place, each time we find ourselves here,” she says softly, and every syllable of it sounds like mourning.

She briefly allows that to hang in the air before she shoves the dagger in and _twists._

“Unfortunately for you, Sabine, in just a few days…you’ll be the only one left standing in it.”

Echo doesn’t look at her. Can’t look at her. She just stands there, staring into the distance, refusing to let Clarke see the quiet anguish in her eyes. 

She exits the stage without another word.

Inwardly, Clarke crumples to her knees in relief. _And…scene._ The clichéd drama school phrase rolls across her thoughts, then dissipates. After that, all she can hear is the sound of her own strained breathing. 

_Christ._

She remains on her mark, gaze planted on the stage floor, and desperately tries to recapture the onslaught of feelings coursing through her as fast as she can, wrangle them back and lock them down so she can maybe, possibly function in the next few minutes. 

Because right now? She’s _wrecked._ Her pulse is thudding in her ears, her skin is flushed, and she can’t even imagine what’s flared up in those baby blues of hers, but she knows it’s got to be downright treacherous to point them anywhere near Lexa until she gets this under control. She releases a slow, trembly breath, wringing her shirt between her hands. 

_That may have worked a little too fucking well._

She’s so preoccupied it takes her a minute to notice the silence. 

Lexa hasn’t broken in here yet like she usually does…and now there’s nothing but absolute, suffocating _silence_ creeping in all around her.

She glances up.

And _good god_ , the moment she sees Lexa — or, more accurately, sees the way Lexa is _looking_ at her — every exiled, outlaw feeling Clarke’s managed to round up so far springs loose, tearing free all over again. 

Lexa is still in the exact position she was before, but her eyes are now infinitely dark and _burning_ , rooted on Clarke. 

She’s not moving. 

In fact, she doesn’t even seem to realize the scene has ended.

Stunned, Clarke can only stare back, her veins suddenly flowing with something so electric it almost _crackles_ beneath her skin. That rebellion inside of her kicks up and roars, tightening in her belly and spinning her off balance, and then for _(holy hell, what’s got to be the thousandth time today)_ , Clarke’s positively reeling in the noisy new way Lexa overwhelms her, unable to haul herself away from those eyes. 

And she’s trying. _For fuck’s sake_ , she’s trying. Her brain is sending the distress call; she can hear it blaring loud and clear, cutting through everything else. _Move, goddamn it. Do something._ But her legs just aren’t picking up the fucking signal. 

True to form — _(consistency is, after all, the gold standard among stage managers)_ — it’s Anya who smashes the moment. 

She shuffles on stage behind Clarke, firing a perplexed eyebrow at Lexa. “Are we moving on?” 

The sound of her voice causes Clarke to flinch, snapping the spell. 

Lexa blinks and pulls in a surprised breath, swiveling her eyes toward Anya. “Um…yeah. No.” She lowers her head and fumbles with her notebook, then drops it on the floor altogether, scrambling to retrieve it.

“Which of those is your answer?” Anya snarks, tapping her clipboard against her leg impatiently.

With a giant, prolonged sigh, Lexa launches up from her chair, keeping her eyes locked on her notebook. “Yes, we’re moving on,” she mumbles, climbing onto the stage. She’s blushing so badly the tips of her ears have turned a pretty shade of violet. 

Lexa finally looks up, sweeping her eyes over the assembled company members loitering about at the edges of the stage, waiting for instructions. “Let’s set up for the finale, everyone,” she announces, and her voice is perhaps just a little wobbly and maybe a few decibels louder than necessary.

The group clatters into motion, but Clarke doesn’t immediately head off to join them. She’s still coming down, and _goddamn, she could really use a minute here, after all that._

She can’t help herself from letting her gaze skitter across the stage again, though, just to see what might be waiting on the other side.

Lexa is standing in the wings, her blush settling into a rosier hue. She’s furiously scribbling something in her notebook, but — at almost the precise second Clarke glances over — she glances up. And for just a moment, it’s back…that glittering, deep _want_ in her eyes.

They look at each other, the current dragging between them as swift and hazardous as a riptide now.

Like always, Lexa gathers herself first, turning away. The shadows slowly fold over her as she walks offstage. 

And like always…she manages to take Clarke’s every last breath with her. 

Then — Clarke goes blind, too.

 _(Or, at least, she thinks she does.)_

Because suddenly, the only thing she can see is _white._ Explosive, violent _white_ , attacking her from every side. 

“Fucking hell!” Clarke shouts. She claps her hands over her eyes and stumbles back, scrambling to get away from whatever pissed off deity is surely dropping from the heavens to smite her right now, because _fuck — what else could possibly be doing this?!_

_I knew the theater gods would get me back one day. Looks like having incredibly impure thoughts about your director is their tipping point sin…_

A voice booms through the P.A. system overhead: _“Griffin. Please report to the booth.”_

 _Raven’s_ voice.

Clarke flails her arms in what she thinks is the direction of the lighting and sound booth at the back of the theater. “Cut it out, Raven! Turn these fucking things off.”

The light vanishes in an instant, leaving Clarke slumped where she’s standing, blinking spots out of her vision. She can hear Raven cackling from all the way back in the booth.

“Very cute,” Clarke calls out, flipping off…well, god knows who she actually hits, _because she still can’t see a fucking thing._

She huffs and clutches the proscenium, slowly pulling herself along as she tries to find her way offstage.

********************* 

As soon as Clarke steps into the booth, Raven shoves a bottle of water at her, dangling it in front of her face. Out of instinct, Clarke slaps it away as if she’d just walked into a spiderweb. 

Raven watches the bottle go rolling across the floor and turns back to Clarke, eyebrows raised. “Kind of jumpy, aren’t we?”

She glares at her.

“I just thought I’d help a sister out,” Raven grins, pointing her thumb toward the stage. “Looked a little parched down there. You know…a little thirs—”

“— Did you actually need me for something?” Clarke interrupts. “Or did you just bring me all the way up here so you could make that lame ass joke?”

Raven draws back, pursing her lips at Clarke. “Okay, okay. I can see you’re not in the mood.” She heads over to the soundboard, her hands flying over the controls as she talks. “No, I actually did bring you up here for a reason,” she says, adjusting one of the hundreds of knobs and levers on the board and nodding to herself before she turns back to Clarke. “Umm…what was it, though…?” She snaps her fingers in a quick blur, brow scrunched with an exaggerated, confused scowl.

…And then her face smooths out so fast it’s like she’s just swept it onto to the floor, replaced by a smirk that’s all _up to no good_ smarminess. “Oh. Right.” She motions toward the stage. “What the fuck was up with all that?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and heads toward the stairs leading back down to the theater.

“No, wait,” Raven laughs, chasing after her. “Hold on…” She grabs Clarke by the shoulders and gently pulls her back in the direction of the soundboard. 

Clarke groans and shoots her a tired, pleading look, but she allows Raven to lead her over to where they were standing before.

“I’m sorry,” Raven says, releasing her and returning to her mad scientist tinkering over the soundboard. “Seriously, though. Octavia said you and Lexa had a showdown last night, so I kind of figured you two would be all disgusting and swoony today, you know? But instead, every time I see you together you look like you’re stuck in one of those old black-and-white, depressing-as-fuck Italian films. And then there was all…” She waves her hand at the stage. “…that. That sad, definitely _unfucked_ tragedy that just happened down there. What’s going on?”

“It’s…” Clarke hesitates, not even knowing how she can phrase this to get Raven to drop the subject. She throws out her hands in frustration. “It’s just complicated, okay?” Her fabricated response of the day dashes through the door, trying for a last-ditch save. “We’re working through some stuff.” 

Raven snickers at that, peering at a cable before she shrugs and plugs it into the board. “Oh, we all just got to watch how you’re _‘working through some stuff’_ , Clarke. It seems to be pretty much the same way you and Lexa have been handling this shit for weeks, only now the agony’s all cranked up to eleven and there’s a lot more torchy eye contact involved.” 

She flips a switch, and the cable she’s just connected pops and sparks, eliciting a startled noise out of Clarke that sounds a little like a yelping Chihuahua. Raven calmly flips the switch again and unplugs it. “I mean…don’t get me wrong, outside of the torture part, it’s actually kinda hot as fuck.” She glances over at Clarke, winking before she starts digging through cables again. “You even had me sweating a little back here, so kudos, dude. No easy task.”

Clarke shuffles and gives an embarrassed snort, her cheeks flaming.

“But, honestly…” Raven goes on. “If you all don’t let this slow burn shit end soon, one of you might literally combust. It’s a thing. It can totally happen. I’ve seen it on, like, those _paranormal encounter_ -type shows, you know? People can just fucking burst into flame, and the only thing left of them is a big, nasty pile of soot and some burnt up shoes.” 

She yanks a cable from the mess she’s sorting through and holds it up to the light overhead, studying it. “And everybody’s all like: _‘What could have happened to them?’_ , like it’s a big fucking mystery and everything, but I’m telling you, dude. It’s shit like this…“ She gestures toward the stage again. “…that takes those pitiful fuckers out. We are a fragile fucking species, Griffin. The human body can only withstand so much, and you and Lexa are pushing your damn limits here. Let me help you before it’s too late.” Raven caps off her whirlwind rambling with a wide grin at Clarke, her tongue poking out between her teeth.

“Okay, first of all, stop watching those shows — ” Clarke says, snatching the first wide-eyed thought that manages to bust through Raven’s absurd tirade. 

“ — Never,” Raven mutters, leaning down to plug in the cable.

Clarke notices what Raven’s doing and takes a step back as she continues. “—Because you sound like a crazy person right now. Secondly, while I appreciate the concern, I think we’re okay.”

Raven finishes connecting the cable and flips that same switch again. No thousand-watt complaints this time. Satisfied, she nods before turning to Clarke, watching her for a moment. “Are you, though?”

Clarke’s face sobers. She looks away, her gaze settling on the array of equipment in front of her, instead. “Yeah, you know…” she fades out, shrugging. “Like I said, it’s complicated.” She can see Raven still watching her out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey.”

“I mean, we just need to figure a few things out,” Clarke hastens to add, refusing to acknowledge Raven yet. 

“Clarke.”

“Get some shit sorted, you know?”

Raven moves a step closer, her tone growing more adamant. “Clarke.”

“But we’ll get there,” Clarke says, bullying right past Raven again. “You know, like…eventually…but —“

“Oh my god, would you stop? Seriously, just stop it and fucking talk to me, dude.”

“I can’t,” Clarke blurts, reeling on Raven. “Okay? I can’t.”

Raven stares at her. “Can’t?” She folds her arms and leans her hip into the soundboard, her attention kindling. 

(And Clarke’s stomach sinks, because she can tell that — with one dumb, poorly-chosen word — she’s just committed a grievous error here. She’s also just thrown a whole mess of gasoline on that spark in Raven’s eye.)

 _Shit._

“Not _‘don’t want to’_. Not _‘rather not’_. But _‘can’t’_ , huh?” Raven’s gaze sharpens.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Clarke just looks at her, caught out. There are a hundred possible responses ricocheting through her brain right now — bouncing around like those numbered, neon fucking ping-pong balls in a televised lotto drawing — but she can’t even grab _one._ Nothing’s coming.

“You know something.” Raven unspools a thread. Then she ties that string to another. “And it involves Lexa.”

“I…I don’t know anything,” Clarke stammers at last, breaking out in nervous laughter. “Especially about Lexa. Clearly. Maybe if I did, I have an easier time dealing with my problems.” She flings a wide gesture at the stage below, as if to say: _See what I mean?_

Raven doesn’t take the bait. “Because I might know something, too,” she continues, brushing away Clarke’s attempt to deflect her. “And judging by how pale you got when I said her name, now I for sure know whatever’s got you panicked is tangled up with Lexa, so, yeah. Maybe we know the same thing.” 

And now Clarke’s simply arrived at her original ineffectual comeback in this scenario: helpless, slack-jawed staring. _(Perspiration, too. She seems to be dealing with a lot of that at the minute. It’s getting worse the longer Raven keeps staring at her like that.)_

Raven’s eyes flicker over Clarke’s face, searching. She tilts her head. “Lexa’s figured out the theater’s broke, and she’s done something stupid to save it, hasn’t she?”

Clarke holds on for another breath. Maybe two. 

Then she explodes. “Fuck, Raven. Are you, like, a goddamn oracle or something? I mean, _Jesus._ How the fuck do you do that?” Bewildered beyond all reason, Clarke shakes her fists in a full-out toddler tantrum before she presses them to her forehead, wincing and shutting her eyes.

“Pretty sure my mom was a _bruja_ ,” Raven deadpans, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s where it comes from.”

Clarke drops her hands away, her cheeks puffing out around an exasperated sigh. “How in the hell…?”

“Listen, you know how smart I am, right? That carries over to basic addition and subtraction, too, Griffin.” She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Indra and Lexa have been acting fucking squirrelly for months, really ramping up with the money shit around here, so I figured something must be up. I just took a peek at their balance sheets. That’s when I realized _Gonakru’s_ almost out of cash.”

“You haven’t told anybody, have you?” 

Raven’s face collapses into a wounded snarl. “Please. Of course I haven’t. I’ve been trying to find a way to actually fix this shit show first.”

“Alright, everybody, let’s get back to places,” Indra calls out from below them.

“Places!” Anya bellows from somewhere farther backstage, setting Clarke’s teeth on edge. _(Anya’s got a set of pipes on her that would put cathedrals the world over to organ-shrinking shame.)_

“Shit. I gotta go,” Clarke says, shuffling in place. She scans the stage below, formulating a plan as she watches company members filing back in to start the run through of the finale. Her eyes fly back up to Raven. “Okay. As soon as we’re done tonight, we’re talking, alright? Can you meet me in Lincoln’s dressing room after?”

“You know, if you’d said that to me a couple of weeks ago, I’d be so down for that three-way mash up, girl,” Raven replies, as if that in any way answers Clarke’s question. 

Clarke lobs an entirely flabbergasted stare at Raven. “What?”

Raven looks off in the middle distance for a minute, a curious, _way-too-pleased-with-the-idea-for-Clarke’s-comfort_ expression playing across her features. Clarke doesn’t even want to know what kind of sweaty pictures are grinding against each other behind Raven’s disconcertingly hungry brown eyes right now. 

She claps her hands at Raven. “Raven! Focus up, damn it.”

It works, yanking Raven back to the present. She pops up and meets Clarke’s eyes with a totally _not sorry_ shrug. “What? I mean, look at the three of us, Griffin. That’s a tasty fucking trio, and you know it. We’d be all kinds of pretty together.”

“Oh my god…I can’t even…” Clarke mutters to herself. “Seriously, every time I think I’ve hit the absolute bottom of how weird and wrong you can possibly be…” As she talks, she stretches her hands toward Raven and gives the air between them a couple solid whacks, like she’s trying to shoo away every disturbing and ludicrous thing the designer has just said. 

Between that and the deep frown Clarke’s sporting, Raven seems to get exactly how much Clarke is _not_ having this discussion, because she just shrugs again and lazily waves at her in a manner that indicates: _“Eh. Suit yourself.”_

“Will you just meet me there, please?” Clarke finally sighs. 

“I’ll be there,” Raven nods, mouth flattening into a determined line as she fully returns to the problem at hand. “So, Lincoln knows about this, too?”

“Yeah. He’s trying to get some info for me that might help.”

“That little fucker,” Raven spits, rolling her eyes. “Lincoln usually can’t keep a secret worth shit, so I’m kind of shocked. This must be killing him.” She glances down at the stage. “Hey, dude, you better go. Anya’s got that dead-eyed, _‘I’m looking for Sarah Connor’ Terminator_ stare going on. Things are about to get real ugly if you don’t get down there.”

With a grimace, Clarke turns for the door. Then an afterthought spins her right back around. “You haven’t, by chance, already _found_ a way to fix this yet, have you?”

“Not all the way. But I’ve got a few things lined up.”

“Okay. Good.” She can’t seem to stop nodding as she processes Raven’s answer, her thoughts completely wound up and twirling.

“Places!” Anya bellows again, jolting Clarke out of it.

She’s almost out the door when she hears Raven call her name. Clarke whips around, eyebrows raised.

Raven takes a deep breath, eyes serious and worried now. “She hasn’t already done something stupid, has she?”

Her face falls. “Not yet,” Clarke says quietly. She glances up at Raven again. “But’s she’s planning on it.”

Raven’s mouth thins down even more. “Yeah, fuck that.” She looks out at the stage and then back to Clarke, frantically gesturing to the door. “Alright, but seriously, though? You need to _run_ , dude. Anya’s never yelled for places _three_ times since we’ve been open, and I don’t want to see what she’ll do to you if you make her.”

Clarke rushes out of there so fast, she nearly bites it halfway down the stairs.

*************************

“…For those of you Lexa wants to see for notes, please stay,” Indra tells them, eyes on the clipboard in front of her as she checkmarks the items she’s already covered.

From the next row back, Clarke hears Murphy give a low, grumbly whine at that.

Indra looks up, nailing Murphy with a _“don’t tempt me, asshole”_ glare. “For the rest of you…” she rolls on smoothly, casting a wider glance over the assembled company. “We’ll see you at 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow to do it all over again. Thank you, everyone.”

And then the rush hour of closing down the theater for the night begins, in which the worn-out cast and crew swerve off to finish their methodical wrap up procedures as quickly as they can while Indra, Anya, and Lexa direct traffic. There seems to be an extra layer of urgency to it tonight: Anya’s already tossing orders to the backstage crew, Indra and Miller are already debating something about one of the set pieces, and Lexa has launched right into giving Echo her notes before Clarke has even hauled her weary ass out of the seat in which it’s currently parked.

_Today must have felt really fucking long for everybody._

Clarke scans the room, pausing over Lexa. _Still think we’d probably take the top spot for toughest rehearsal, though._

When she senses that loud, unbending, _figure-this-out-and-fight, goddamn it_ feeling kicking up, she releases a long, low breath, trying to center herself. 

_Not yet. I need to get through notes first, then I’ll deal with that._

She leans back in her seat, and wills herself to unwind. Her post-show responsibilities are slim compared to most of the company members; Clarke’s really only expected to return her props to safe storage, and get the fuck out of everyone else’s way. Once they actually get into tech week and performances, there will be costumes to hang and mics to check back in, makeup to wash off, rounds of debriefing and _need-to-knows-before-the-next show_ with Anya and Indra, things like that. But for now, she’s allowed to revel in _Gonakru’s_ refreshingly low-key version of star treatment, and just _sit._ Let the exhaustion ripple through her, and watch that powerhouse trio up there absolutely _handle it_ like the badasses they are.

It’s honestly impressive as hell, the way they work together. Every decision or move they make is efficient and carried out so seamlessly it’s like they’re telepathic or something. Anya maneuvers the backstage crew around Indra with deft precision as Indra investigates whatever’s going on with the set piece, careful to give her space. _(Even if she sometimes thinks Anya’s vision board is splattered with nothing but inventive ways to either scare or irritate the shit out of her, Clarke can still acknowledge the fact that she’s damn good at her job.)_

And then there’s Lexa — the perpetual lookout — who keeps shifting her eyes away from Echo as they discuss notes, checking in on not only what the other two are doing, but anything else happening in the margins, too. Mindful of it all. 

Clarke wonders how much of that unquestionable sense of _nope, we’ve got this_ lies in the inherent natures of Anya and Lexa, or the impact of Indra’s hand in raising them. Really, no matter where that ratio falls, she’s pretty sure the outcome would be the same. Indra doesn’t strike her as the type to tolerate helplessness for long. Anytime Clarke’s seen someone at _Gonakru_ make a mistake, Indra’s always right there, quick with a lesson. Her trademark teaching philosophy seems to be: _“Here’s how you fix this. Now go and do better next time.”_ Considering that, it’s fairly easy to see how Anya and Lexa turned out the way they did. 

Lexa waves Lincoln and Murphy over to join Echo, her accent point gestures flowing fast and furious as she explains something to the actors. They follow her every word with rapt, serious attention. 

_Look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more perfectly and exactly where she belongs in my entire life._

And of course, there’s that _pull._ It’s just always with her now, living inside Clarke. 

_She can’t leave this. She just can’t._

Gradually, the crowd on stage begins to thin out, each crew member or tech’s exit marking a task completed. It brings down the noise level in the theater by increments, the slow fade signal of everyone heading home. _Go ahead and turn out the lights. Gonakru’s been put to bed._

In the settling quiet, Clarke’s picking up more snippets of what Lexa’s saying to the actors. They seem to be finishing up, too.

“…and I think that will make the impact of what Saul says there even greater for Darius. Sound good?”

“Absolutely,” Lincoln replies.

“Alright,” Lexa says, closing her notebook. “Great work, and get some rest, all of you. Sorry tonight ran a little long.”

Echo, Lincoln and Murphy say their goodnights and begin moving offstage. As Lincoln turns away, he catches Clarke’s eye and gives her a subtle head tilt toward the dressing rooms. She nods, tracking their exit into the wings.

Then her gaze flicks back to Lexa.

Her eyes are down and she’s taking a moment to read through her notes, but from the uncharacteristically still way she’s holding herself, Clarke knows Lexa must be feeling the effects of _“and then there were two”_ just as keenly as she is right now.

Clarke’s fingers tap against the armrest of the seat; the muffled noise of it is like a Morse code manifestation of her nerves, the only thing breaking up the looming silence permeating the theater.

Lexa walks toward her, keeping her eyes on the page in front of her. When she reaches the edge of the stage, Clarke sees her take a deep breath before she finally looks up.

They watch each other cautiously, as if they almost expect one of them might make a break for it and _run._

Then, Lexa does something surprising. She tosses her notebook down to the stage floor and sits, dangling her legs over the side, hands on either side of her. As she situates herself, she leans back slightly and releases a short, determined sigh. 

It might be the only time Clarke’s ever seen Lexa actually try to _relax,_ and she’s so taken aback by it she’s grinning before she even realizes what she’s doing.

Lexa meets Clarke’s eyes again, noticing her amused, totally-charmed expression,…and a trace of a grin forms on her face, too. She almost looks a little pleased with herself, like she perhaps suspects that — for maybe the first time today — she just got something _right._ “Hi,” she says at last.

And it works. Lexa’s adorable effort to diffuse the tension between them has tugged on every last heartstring in Clarke. For just a second, it shoves her worries to the side, and immediately puts her at ease. “Hi,” Clarke replies, laughing softly.

Lexa sighs again, longer this time, her shoulders inching down. There’s a flash of muted relief in her eyes, gone before she ends her next sentence. “Normally, this is the part where I ask you how it went for you today.” She looks at Clarke. “But I’m fairly certain of the answer already.”

Clarke waits a moment, choosing how she wants to respond. In the end, she just settles on a nod.

Lexa understands what it means, anyway. “Yeah.” Then she changes course slightly, pushing on before her anxiety can fill up the space. “So, instead, I’d like to start out by asking you if we could perhaps try something.” Her speech has an air of resolution to it, sounding just a bit too polished and prepared for this to be the first time Lexa has thought about the conversation they’re about to have. 

When Lexa checks in with her, Clarke lifts a puzzled eyebrow and gestures as if to indicate: _Go on._

“Okay.” A pause. “I know this is difficult…” She glances away and back again, forcing herself forward another step. “Us working together, I mean.”

Clarke’s restless tapping resumes.

“I want to do whatever I can to make that easier,” Lexa continues, the pace of her words increasing. “So I thought maybe acknowledging it would help, that if maybe you wanted to…” And now she’s stumbling a little, regardless of how many ways she’s anticipated this might go, or readied herself for them. “You know, talk about anything or if you needed to…” She gives up, tugging her eyes away from Clarke and casting them somewhere toward the back of the theater. Her volume drops. “I didn’t give you a chance to say much before I left last night.”

There. She’s placed it right in front of Clarke, offering her the chance to pick it up, finish what they started, let her know how she thinks they should handle this. Giving her the marker and the map and saying: _It’s yours. I’ve told you where I am. Tell me where you’d like to go._

 _Hoping_ , as only Lexa can.

In the hush that falls after, Clarke just stares at her. She can take them anywhere, depending on what she says here. Lay it all out, smooth the creases of every aching _shouldn’t, can’t, won’t_ thing she’s folded down inside, held small and quiet — show Lexa exactly how long she’s been keeping them. She could tell Lexa that even if it’s completely unfair, she wants to be reckless. She wants to quit holding back and shutting down and just give in to this, finally and fully, let it burn her up. Even if _(and it hurts so much to think this, to imagine it all playing out…the worst case, can’t-stop-it-scenario)_ — Lexa winds up leaving. Even if the distance proves too much for them to deal with. Even if it has to end as soon as it starts… _god,_ she wants Lexa so badly she almost doesn’t care about the heartbreak she’s risking anymore. 

And maybe if she led them there, Lexa would follow. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But at least she would _know._

For a brief moment, the thought intrudes that this is what it must be like for Lexa, most of the time. Not that vague, unsettled feeling that Clarke’s lived with for so long — like she’s constantly missing out, but can’t find the path to _what_ she’s missing. But that crystalline, unfiltered _fire_ that howls inside Lexa, and that she stifles so often to take care of others. _Fuck. How does she stand this?_

Because Clarke realizes _(and it’s killing her right now)_ that, yes. She _could_ tell her. Until she can find a way past _leaving_ , though…it would just make everything worse, for both of them. Even if she’s more than willing to potentially put herself through that, she can’t ask it of Lexa. She just _can’t._

So Clarke gets as close as she’s able to without sending them over the edge of this. Not now. ( _Not yet_ , her mind quickly corrects.) “I know what I want to say.”

Lexa’s eyes cut back to her. Waiting. 

“But I also know what saying it might do to us, the second you can’t be here anymore.”

They look at each other, Clarke’s words spreading out, growing heavier and heavier the longer the silence holds. 

When it gets to be too much, Clarke pushes out of her seat, slowly ambling down the space between the front row and the stage, running her fingertips across the house seats as she goes. She can sense Lexa watching her.

“Is there anything I can do to…?” Lexa doesn’t finish her question, and Clarke tries hard not to hear the quiet, defeated way her voice sounds. Because no matter where it was heading: _to convince you, to help you, to let you know how selfish I want to be, too?_ — it would all lead to the same answer for Clarke.

_Stay. Just…stay. That’s what you can do._

But she knows can’t say that, either. Not _yet._ “Maybe all we can do is just try to figure it out, day by day.” Clarke turns back to Lexa, inhaling over the feeling she gets when their eyes connect — that perhaps whatever is chasing them both down has just picked up some _speed._

Lexa examines what she’s said. “Day by day it is, then,” she finally says. Stronger this time. Less defeated, more disappointed. The sound of Lexa’s good sense telling her this is for the best, and Lexa’s heart telling her _it’s okay, it’s not over, just keep reaching out._

_Killing her._

_Please hang on with me, Lexa. Just let me see if I can get us through the ‘not yet’ part of this first. And then…?_

Clarke drives away the images that instantly come careening in again as best she can. _Lexa kissing her like the world was…_

_Don't._

She sighs long and low and pushes on. “One thing, though?” she adds quietly.

When Lexa glances back up at her, she can tell she’s already willing to agree to just about anything Clarke’s about to ask, if it might make this any better. Because the expression she’s wearing right now is nothing but guilt and regret and _I wish, I wish, I wish…_

“Maybe not so much with the avoidance during rehearsal? It just seems to make it harder, you know?” 

Lexa pulls in a quick breath, like a reflex response. _(As if that maybe hit a very sensitive, very unguarded spot.)_ She’s still for a couple seconds more, then gives a small smile, her eyes warming. They flare a deeper, richer green when they return to Clarke. “It does,” she admits softly. 

And the weight that lifts off Clarke at seeing Lexa smile — no matter how small or exhausted or even just plain sad and _if only_ that smile may be — god, it feels _so good_ when it leaves. “Okay,” she replies, swallowing when her voice catches.

“Okay.” Lexa hesitates only briefly, then nods and narrows her eyes as she tries to regroup, steer them back toward something less overwhelming. She retrieves her notebook, flipping to the page she’d abandoned before. It’s probably the hardest Clarke’s ever seen her struggle to shift into work mode. 

Drifting closer to the stage, Clarke takes full advantage of Lexa’s divided attention and lets her eyes wander over the director as she closes a bit of the distance between them. 

She’s completely worn out, wearing a pair of faded black jeans that have probably been with her since her college days, they’re so frayed at the pockets, and her curls are all tousled and end-of-a-long-night wild…but she is _just so goddamn beautiful._

Clarke takes her in, her chest finally able to expand and fill a bit easier, now that Lexa’s just cleared up some space again. 

They’ve spent so much of the day in that keyed up, _mind the gap_ headspace; she’s missed all those little moments of simply being near each other — the feather light touches and low, leaned-in words they normally pass back and forth during rehearsals. Clarke’s never gotten used to them, not in the least. Any time Lexa crosses into Clarke’s boundaries like that, it still quakes right through her, sets her senses into overdrive. Still, the constant barrage Lexa inspires has become familiar enough to her that she’s definitely felt how _gone_ it’s been today. 

“I don’t have much —“ Lexa lifts up abruptly and… _dammit._ Catches her watching. 

Lexa’s eyes flicker over Clarke in a lightning-quick up and down sweep before she takes a breath and turns back to her notebook, blinking. “— but, um…the…” She stops, scanning the page again while she works to shake off the misfire Clarke seems to have caused. “The end of Act I. Your scene with Saul was much crisper. I like the timing you’ve set on that, so wonderful job.” 

To cover her embarrassment at being caught so openly staring, _(and to maybe point her unreliable eyes in another direction)_ , Clarke pushes herself up to sit at the edge of the stage, as well, leaving some room between them. “Good. That’s good. Thank you,” she mumbles, settling in to her spot. 

Lexa is quiet for a moment. Then: “So, the confrontation with Sabine in Act II.”

 _Yup. Here we go. Figured that would probably come up in the notes session tonight._

Clarke can’t hold back the smirk that’s tugging across her face, even though she’s _trying._

_You knew this was going to be awkward, whether or not you were just busted for looking at her like that._

“Yes?” she finally prompts, when it doesn’t seem like Lexa will move on until she says something.

“Um…there was, um…a different energy to it tonight.”

 _Jesus._ “Yeah. I just tried something else.” Face burning now, Clarke stares hard at the empty house seats, still trying to get her smirk under control. _(It doesn’t help that she keeps picturing Lexa dropping her notebook over and over again.)_

_Quit it. It’s not funny, damn it._ Her chin starts to wobble.

“Okay.” Another pause. “Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you it, uh…it worked. Really well.”

And she simply can’t help it anymore. Clarke giggles. She giggles, and it’s just a little bit self-conscious and just a little bit evil, and she’s pissed at herself for apparently being completely unable to _rein it the fuck in sometimes._

She tucks her chin and swallows the rest of her giggles, then turns her head slowly toward Lexa, peering at her under her lashes. She halts over a brief, second-guessing thought of: _Better not, Griffin_ , then just shrugs that right off and crashes into: _Eh, fuck it._ “Did it now?” It’s an attempt at a joke — a way to brush off her so-not-appropriate-for-the-situation, stupid knee jerk reaction — but it backfires spectacularly when her voice comes out sounding far too husky. _(Which is also so not appropriate for this situation, and Lexa couldn’t have possibly not heard that, so way to go.)_

And Clarke honestly expects some sort of fumbly, blushing response, given the way Lexa was squirming just a second ago. What she does _not_ expect, however, is for Lexa to meet her playful and probably _(okay, definitely)_ unwise “come hither” glance completely head on. 

Nor the slow, overheated, top-to-toe perusal of her Lexa then makes. 

And certainly not the quiet challenge in her eyes or the low, serious rasp of her voice when she finally just looks at Clarke and says again, with irrefutable sincerity: “ _Really_ well.” 

They stare at each other for a moment.

Clarke looks away first, turning back to face the house and drawing a deep breath in through her nose, letting it out slowly. Her belly drops back down from whatever higher place it’s traveled to with a _whump_. 

_Fuck. Touché, Woods._

Lexa hops down from the stage ledge, placing her notebook behind her. Then she shoves her hands into her pockets and steps away from Clarke, tipping her head back to gaze at the ceiling as she works through her thoughts. 

Clarke follows her with her eyes. 

“You know, during the audition process, that was one of the scenes I kept envisioning while we were deciding roles,” she says, turning and resuming her leisurely steps in the other direction.

“Yeah?”

Lexa nods as she passes in front of Clarke. “Well, you know. It’s an important scene for them, many things being said and not said, lines established, lines erased. There’s a lot happening, but…” 

She turns again, lowering her chin and looking down, strolling back the other way. “It’s the one I kept coming back to when we were casting Devin and Sabine because it’s really the point where — in all of the uprisings and hostility Sabine’s faced during her time as the Empress — _this_ is where she gets closest to losing her power. This is the moment she’s closest to letting go of it all.”

When she nears Clarke again, Lexa stops, standing in front of her now but still facing the wall of the theater, her left side to Clarke. If Clarke leaned forward, she could touch her. 

Lexa’s looking at the wall, but her stare is somewhere much farther away. “I realized early on that choosing who to cast as Devin was far more crucial to me than even who we chose for Sabine. Sabine may seem like the focal point, but Devin? That decision could make or break this story.”

Clarke’s eyes are absolutely riveted on Lexa, sliding over the perfect curve of her cheekbones and the curls spilling down her shoulder — the light catching them just right, shifting their color to bring out the lovely burnished cinnamon tones underneath. The snug fit of her jeans around her upper thighs and the rounded flex of her shoulders, the solid strength there. The way her shirt falls just so at the collar to expose that delicious divot at the base of her throat, the one Clarke wants to kiss again and again and again… 

The effect of it all is making it hard to think. Clarke blinks hazily and taps her syrupy brain awake. “Why do you say that?”

When Lexa doesn’t immediately reply, Clarke gives in to her mischievous, foolish impulses again and nudges her gently with her foot, smirking. (It’s actually maybe more that she can’t seem to resist finally making contact, not when Lexa’s just _right there_.)

Lexa draws back into herself at the touch, inhaling softly, then turns toward Clarke with a slow grin, meeting her eyes. She slips her hands out of her pockets and takes a step closer, just beyond the edge of Clarke’s knees. Her hips slot into the space between them almost perfectly. 

Clarke suddenly forgets what she was smirking about. 

“I knew Devin needed to be someone who could be strong, and clever. Fierce when she had to be. Caring, all the time.” Lexa pauses, and her grin begins to drop away as her gaze darts over Clarke’s face. “Someone beautiful.” 

She inches forward, watching Clarke so closely, so carefully, for any reaction that she’s unwelcome here. That this is too much. That she should back the hell up and stop looking at her like that, all wonderstruck and captivated and like she is positively _drinking_ Clarke in. 

Her hips graze the insides of Clarke’s thighs. 

_Oh, god._ A line of chills flutters through Clarke, zigzagging out in every direction and making her belly _flip, flip, flip._ She swallows and sighs through it, hands twitching against the stage floor.

When she feels Lexa freeze, Clarke locks eyes with her.

It’s such a bad idea, and they both know it. They’ve been fighting this all day, this need to get closer. But today has been _so hard_ , and last night was _so much_ , and this just feels so fucking _amazing_ right now that Clarke can’t find the will to shut it off yet, no matter how much she knows she has to. (Some stubborn, rational part of her brain calls out to her then: _Ahead, not up…)_

Clarke ignores it. She shakes her head once, firm. 

_I’m okay. This is okay. Christ, you’ve never been more welcome anywhere, Lexa._

Lexa releases the breath she’s been holding. _(She also makes this relieved, soft, achy little noise that causes Clarke’s throat to dry right up.)_ She drags her eyes away to focus on the stage, and there’s a bit of a fog to her now, like all of this has her on overload, too. 

It takes her a second to go on. “Someone Sabine wouldn’t be able to turn away from.” 

And then Lexa’s fingertips slide against the outside of Clarke’s knees, her thumb rubbing these gentle, slow circles across the top of Clarke’s leg that are _light_ and _warm_ and absolutely _everything_. It feels like champagne bubbles have erupted in Clarke’s bloodstream, all tickly and tingly and guaranteed to go straight to her head. 

Lexa slowly raises her eyes.

That’s the moment the fizziness hits. And Clarke’s swaying all over again. She clutches the edge of the stage, holding on tight so she doesn’t tumble right off. _Oh my god._

“The day I met you…” Lexa’s voice is so quiet, but it’s _steady._ “I stood in that hallway as we said our goodbyes, and from that point on, I just couldn’t see Devin as anyone else.” 

Her eyes fall to Clarke’s lips just long enough to send her pulse _soaring._

“Because I knew right then...if I had an empire to give?” She pauses, and it seems as if she’s trying to either gather the courage to say whatever’s coming next or decide if she should even say it at all. “I would certainly trade it for you.” 

Clarke just looks at her. Her mouth opens, but the only thing that flies out is an almost inaudible: _“Buh.”_

So it would seem that — in addition to her habit of regularly making Clarke breathless — Lexa’s now decided to add _speechless_ to the list, too. 

_Perfect._

A split second grin lights across Lexa’s face before she covers it by easing back from Clarke, her fingertips dragging slow, devastating sparks as they lift away. She steps over to retrieve her notebook. 

There’s a subtle confidence to the way she’s moving, a touch of giddy, _I’m-so-damn-thrilled-with-how-that-went-down_ in her eyes that is just dismantling Clarke even more right now. Because it’s almost, _almost_ approaching _swagger_ , and _fuck, does it ever look good on Lexa._

 _(It also makes Clarke suspect that perhaps way, way down, in some trouble-making corner of the director’s psyche, a bit of this could have been Lexa getting her back for what she did to her during that scene with Echo earlier. She does have a competitive streak, after all.)_

Lexa starts to move away, and then _(because she’s evidently not going to be satisfied until she completely ruins me here)_ — as she passes by — she throws one of the most gorgeous and categorically uncalled-for smiles _ever_ at Clarke. With that same smug little glint in her expression.

She continues on, heading for the exit.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Clarke.” 

She says it over her shoulder, and even though Clarke can’t see her face, she can hear exactly how much Lexa is grinning as she leaves.

Clarke continues to stare after her for a few shaky breaths. 

Then she falls back against the stage floor with a groan, throwing her arms out to either side.

There’s a sound in her head then, like the _“Ding! Ding! Ding!”_ of a ringside bell. 

_And that’s it, folks. Griffin’s just been knocked the hell out…_

_Good. Fucking. God._

*******************

_Slap._

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Octavia grumbles, then slaps Lincoln’s shoulder again.

Clarke pushes further into the dressing room and slams the door shut behind her, trying to piece together the scene she’s just walked into. “What the hell is going on?”

Raven grimaces and holds her hands out in front of her. “Okay, first of all — dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Blake didn’t know.” She waves at Lincoln and Octavia helplessly.

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t,” Lincoln pleads to Octavia, rubbing his shoulder. “Please don’t be mad…”

Octavia slaps him again.

“Secondly…” Raven goes on, as if Lincoln’s not actively being assaulted right beside her. “Why the fuck didn’t either of you tell me Lexa’s planning on fucking _leaving_?” She punctuates that last word with a brutal backhanded slap to Lincoln’s other shoulder.

“God! Ow!” Lincoln cries, jerking away from her. 

“Hey!” Clarke breaks in. “Stop beating up on Lincoln, alright?”

Octavia stabs at finger at her. “I’m pissed at _you_ , too. You want a turn?” She pauses, looking at all three of them. “In fact, I’m pissed at all of you. Seriously, what the fuck?”

“Look, I’m sorry none of us could say anything, O, but it’s really complicated, okay? And anyway, we don’t have time to stand around fighting about this,” Clarke argues, trying to shut this down as quickly as possible. If Octavia really starts tearing into them right now, she knows they could be here all night. “You’re here now, so you can either be pissed, or you can help us.” 

Octavia stews for a moment, her jaw working. “I can do both,” she finally says, still glaring at Clarke.

“Fine.” Clarke sighs and redirects to Lincoln, who’s still hunkered down between Octavia and Raven, looking absolutely miserable and maybe just a bit scared for his own safety. “What did you find out?”

Lincoln grabs a paper off the counter behind him. “I managed to get some numbers from Indra’s office, but I’m not sure how accurate they are. I think these are the most recent figures, though.” 

He hands the paper to Clarke, and the four of them lean in to take a look.

Raven whistles lowly. “Yeah, that’s about what I’d had, too.”

“Fuck,” Octavia breathes.

Clarke just stares at the numbers. _Holy shit, that’s a lot of decimal places._ Then she blows out a breath, organizing facts in her head. “Okay, so…we have less than two weeks…to come up with…” She scans the page again. “…that.”

A heavy, depressing silence falls over the room.

“About half of that, actually,” Raven amends.

They all turn to look at her.

Raven shrugs and motions at the paper. “I’ve got about half of that covered already,” she explains casually, as if they should just drop it right there and move on.

Octavia swivels her gaze back to the paper. “You’ve got half. Of that.” She looks at Raven again. “Are you sure you’re seeing all the zeroes on that page, Reyes?”

“Yeah, I mean…I’ve been doing all those side hustles, right?” Raven says, lowering her eyes. She’s starting to fidget a bit, like she doesn’t want to reveal this to them. “I’ve been saving up, like, you know…a rainy day fund, or whatever.”

“Okay, but…” Octavia begins slowly, glancing between Lincoln and Clarke like: _‘You guys are hearing this, too, yeah?’_ “How the fuck have you saved up that much money? Are you like, a goddamn assassin for hire or something? Oh god, you’re not turning tricks, are you?”

Raven rolls her eyes and flings her hands out to the side. “Does it really fucking matter? I’ve got it. It’s handled.”

Clarke steps in. “This money isn’t, like, illegal or anything, right?”

“Oh my god, seriously?” Raven sighs, whirling on Clarke. “That’s rude, Griffin. Just fucking rude.”

“Sorry,” Clarke says, raising her arms in surrender.

“Nah, I can’t let this go,” Octavia presses. “Like, honestly, how in the hell —“

“Fuck! Fine. Fine,” Raven huffs. She puts her hands on her hips and stares at Octavia for a moment. “Listen, I know a guy who knows a guy, and he put me onto some work, and it pays really fucking well. So yes, it’s legal. And yes, I legit have that much cash saved. And I’ve been saving it for this exact fucking reason right here, because I knew the company was on the skids.”

They just stare at her.

Raven drops her head with a groan. “You’re gonna make me fucking say it…” she mutters under her breath. She looks back up. “I’ve been designing touring shows for pop stars.” By the way she says it, it sounds as if she would have rather admitted to turning tricks.

The staring continues.

“Pop stars?” Octavia finally asks.

“Yeah,” Raven says, stretching out the word. “I’m working on a setup right now for one of the, um…” She makes a disgusted face and wags her hand dismissively. “Jonas Brothers. Don’t ask me which one, though. I can’t tell those fuckers apart.”

“Sonuva…” Clarke mumbles, looking at Raven with such a baffled expression she might as well have just confessed to being a real life mermaid. “Really?”

“I’m _really_ good at this shit,” Raven shrugs. “They pay me a bundle to do it. It was the only way I could come up with some funds in a hurry.” She points an accusatory finger around the room. “And I’ll have you know, I have suffered, too. Because I’ve actually had to listen to some of that shit to design for these people, okay? So no fucking jokes. I’ve earned that. Also? None of you shits better tell anyone about this. Not one word. Got it? I’m looking at you, Blake.”

Octavia smirks at her. “Got it.” _(Even though Clarke can tell she’s dying to tell absolutely everyone about this.)_

They all go quiet while everyone processes, their collective mood tanking the longer the moment gets.

“Alright. So we need some ideas, and we need them fast,” Clarke says, sorting her thoughts as she’s voicing them. “So, whatever you all can come up with, okay? But, seriously…keep this quiet. I mean that. Lexa doesn’t want this getting out yet, so we’ve got to be super careful.”

They nod in agreement.

“Maybe we can rent Lincoln to, like, one of those rich as fuck Kardashians for a while or something,” Raven offers. “Side note — can’t tell them apart, either.” She wiggles her fingers in Lincoln’s direction. “But I mean…look at that ass. Someone would pay for that ass. Back me up on this, Blake.”

Octavia glares at her. (Despite the impending threat of more slappage, Lincoln actually looks a little flattered.)

“What?” Raven says innocently. “She said whatever we could come up with. It’s an idea.”

Shaking her head, Clarke opens the door a bit, preparing to head out. “Maybe something that doesn’t involve whoring out company members, though.” 

She pauses, shutting the door again, and leaning into it. She faces them. If they’re really in this with her now, she has to make sure they understand what they’re up against. “You all…Lexa needs us to come through for her in a big, bad way right now, okay? We’ve only got until opening night to figure this the hell out. After that, it’s over. She won’t be able to get out of this anymore. And then she’ll be gone.”

Once it’s in the room, that final thought reaches out, sinks its fingers into all of them, and squeezes hard, wringing them back to sobriety in an instant.

Octavia’s the one who punches back first. “Let me break this down to you in nerd terms,” she says, throwing a sidelong grin at Clarke. “We’ve got the girl who saved the human race.” She points at Clarke. “A couple of kickass generals.” She gestures between herself and Lincoln. “And a crazy fucking science wizard.” She nods at Raven. “That’s a pretty stellar fucking crew, sister. We’re, like, quest-worthy here. I think we’ve got this.”

It manages to draw a smile out of Clarke. She’s searching for the words to thank them, to tell them how much this means to her, but when she glances around the room, she sees she doesn’t need to try. They already know. 

It kind of makes her love them even more.

She can still feel that snarling, awful thing coming for them, and what it wants. It’s set off a rampage in Clarke that’s hers to carry now, and make her absolutely crazy with worry, and noise and even more heavy and heartsick _you can't's_ than she had before. But that's the price of waking up — and of Lexa showing her everything she has to lose. 

And _god_ , if she wasn’t motivated enough already, after what just happened in the theater…

She knows their odds are terrible.

She knows she should still be afraid.

But tonight, when Lexa looked at her like that…something inside Clarke finally stopped running. 

And with the " _we're all in with you_ " way her back up is looking at her right now? She thinks it maybe just turned around, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just posted CH 11 today, and wanted to add a note here, because it’s been nagging at me for a while.
> 
> Chapter 10 got weird on me. If you’ve just hit the end of it, and you’re left with this, like: ‘Umm...seriously, WTF?’ feeling? It’s cool. I KNOW. And it’s totally cool.
> 
> Here’s the thing: You know how in, like, one of those long-ass fantasy/sci-fi series or whatever, there’s sometimes that just fucking random, weird stretch where the hero disappears into a magical forest, or sails off to visit an entirely new realm for no discernible reason, or stumbles into a Fae den and gets bewitched into a strange sex web by their high Queen’s mystical Fae vajay or something?! Yeah, that’s THIS chapter for me.
> 
> I have to chalk some of that up to the copious heaps of too-much-life-at-once raining down upon the author at the time this was written, and the resulting headspace. 
> 
> Since this is still a work in progress, I don’t want to take the time now to go back and fix the issues. Once this is finished? Oh, yes. 10’s getting the full talk show makeover. But for now, I’m leaving it up as is. (And until then, I’m avoiding it like that asshole relative at a holiday gathering. You know who I’m talking about.)
> 
> Just wanted to let ya’ll know that I see it, too. It shall be handled one day. 
> 
> And I’m so grateful for the cheers and nice things you still sent my way, anyway, at posting time. The Clexa-sphere is truly wonderful. Seriously...all of you are _just so beautiful._.
> 
> If this is your first time here? 11 is better, if you’re still up for hitting that ‘next chapter’ button. 😊
> 
> THANK YOU. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


	11. How It Went Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9/8 Update: Just wanted to stop in and let you all know I’m still here, and still working away. Life got a little busier than I expected, and it’s holding up the next chapter a bit longer than usual. I hope to get an update out in about a week, though. 😊
> 
> Have a fantastic week, friends, and I’ll see you soon...
> 
> **************
> 
> Welp, it's been about a month, but I've got a hefty chapter to make up for it. Whaaat? _No._ (I know none of you are probably shocked by that at this point.)
> 
> But here's hoping you like it. ;)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you _so much_ for sticking with me, and for being just... _gah._ Amazing. I'm so grateful you're out there.
> 
> Extra special thanks to Bellatores for the second set of eyes, and for always being so gracious. (Even if you may be slightly appalled by my word counts. It's totally okay. I get it. I make no excuses there.)
> 
> I hope wherever any of you are, life is treating you kindly, and I'll see you as again just as soon as I can...
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Dark Dark Dark.

When she heard a reporter would be dropping in today to conduct an interview with Lexa, Clarke didn’t quite picture this. She’s not sure what she imagined, really —perhaps someone more along the lines of the arts beat reporters she’s met before: mostly middle-aged and pasty, a kind of perennial, sickly quality to them born from enduring years of deadline stress and taking themselves too seriously. Wire rim glasses. A penchant for tweed. Something like that. 

Certainly not the statuesque, Amazonian knockout currently standing next to Lexa, though. There’s no way in hell Clarke could have anticipated _her._

She’s an absolute vision — tall and fit and _gorgeous_ , with a lustrous mane of white-blonde, _Elsa-of-Arendelle_ hair and startlingly blue eyes. She’s wearing this svelte midi dress number that shows off her incredibly long, tanned legs and her eye makeup is all smoky and perfectly on point and _for Christ’s sake, does she really need to get right up in Lexa’s business like that?_

Clarke stands across the lobby and stares at them, a menacing, low boil suddenly simmering in her gut.

_I mean, seriously. There’s this thing called ‘personal space’…_

Raven pokes Clarke’s shoulder to get her attention, then brandishes a stack of papers in her face. “Okay, so this is what I was telling you about.” 

Clarke yanks her eyes away from Lexa and the excessively close-talking Glamazon and jerks back, crinkling her nose at the stack as she tries to focus on it. “Um…what, now?”

“The money guy, Clarke. The hit back I got last night,” Raven sighs, waving the papers at her again. She glances over at Lexa and lowers her voice. “I think this one might actually pan out.”

“Oh. Right. Okay…” Clarke says, taking them from Raven on reflex alone, her brain still churning over the situation unfolding across the lobby.

Rehearsal is stuck on stand by while the tech crew loads in the final sections of the set, so Indra’s banished everyone else from the theater until they get done. Clarke had originally headed to the lobby for this exact reason — meeting up with Raven for a quick strategy session about their fundraising efforts. Discovering Lexa out here saying her goodbyes to the reporter just sort of temporarily knocked her mission right off course. (As well as her capacity to think about anything other than how ridiculously pretty said reporter is, how closely she’s standing to Lexa, and the fact that they’ve been chatting over there for a while now.) 

_Lexa’s polite and all, but…the interview’s been over for a minute, Antiope, and — honestly — this is kind of stretching the borders of ‘professional courtesy’ a bit, don’tcha think?_

Clarke looks down at the papers, working to shake off her irritation. _It’s nothing. You’re being dumb. Get back to the important stuff here…_

She still checks in on them one more time before she forcibly elbows her focus toward what Raven’s showing her. _Argh. Just go, already. I’m sure the rest of your goddess clan misses you…_

“So, this is a dude who used to hang with some of us in college…” Raven begins, tapping the top page of the stack.

“No, because back in Season 5, when Dany took down Meereen…”

Clarke flinches, her concentration smashed all over again. She flings a scowl over at Jasper. 

_And THAT’s been going on for a while now, too. Holy hell, I wish they’d shut up._

Jasper, Harper, and Monty. They’re perched on one of the couches in the lobby, splitting a giant order of fries between them while they argue about — of all things — _Game of Thrones._ If she were in a better mood, Clarke would probably find it endearing. As it stands, their noisy _(and getting noisier)_ debate is trampling on her very last overstretched nerve. 

She continues to glare at them, but it does absolutely nothing to slow down the ear-splitting enthusiasm with which Jasper’s presenting his flowchart-worthy breakdown of Targaryen lineage right now.

It also does nothing to slow down Raven. She just pushes on with her rapid-fire explanation as if they’re the only two people in the room.

“…Super nice guy. Made a killing doing whatever, like, evil hedge fund-y, Wall Street shit he does, and now he’s living upstate in this total Bruce Wayne fantasy manse with all that snobby rich person crap. You know, like stables and fancy statues and vineyards and stuff. Seriously. Dude has fucking _vineyards,_ Clarke…”

Clarke nods absently as she stares at the page in her hands. The words keep slithering around on her, too blurry and jumbled up to comprehend.

“But he donates a shit ton of cash to the arts,” Raven adds, sliding her finger along some notable bullet point she wants Clarke to read but that Clarke’s definitely not able to read whatsoever at the minute. “And he owes me a solid for taking his geeky ass under my wing back when he was a freshman…”

“…Yeah, but when they were in Yunkai, Daario told them…” Monty counters, and it’s so loud Clarke misses the last bit of what Raven has just said.

She grimaces and struggles to block him out. 

“…and when I found him, he used to wear nothing but high-waisted chinos and, like, these really tragic homemade _D &D_ shirts with, you know, elves and serpents and shit on them. He was just one loud virgin cry for help back then…”

Clarke tunes out of Raven’s rambling somewhere around _high-waisted chinos_ when she looks up and notices the reporter laying her hand on Lexa’s forearm.

 _Ohhhh, now…hold up…_

Then the reporter giggles and flips that stunning hair over her shoulder.

And the burner cranks right up in Clarke’s gut. 

_Okay. Giggly hair flip AND lingering arm touch? That’s definitely flirting._

She actually feels herself begin to take a step in Lexa’s direction before her better instincts kick in. Her hands clench into fists as she works to tamp down the outrage beginning to bubble up inside her. _Don’t do it. You’ll make a complete fool out of yourself. Just…don’t._

“…managed to shine him up pretty enough that a couple girls actually touched his wang before he graduated —”

“— But, no, he must have been from Braavos because in Season 3 Daario —“

Everything slams in on her from three sides and pulls her under and that’s it. She’s finished. All she can see is _red_ and _mad_ and _done._

Clarke rips her eyes away from Lexa and the reporter and snaps her head toward Raven. 

“Alright,” she huffs, shoving the papers back at Raven in a jerky, frazzled motion. Her voice is trembling. “If you think he might help, I say go for it. Keep after him. Whatever it takes.” She stops, her face falling. “It’s not like anything else we’ve tried has fucking worked.”

Raven stares at her, a confused wrinkle creasing her forehead. “O-kay…”

Clarke flicks a glance across the lobby again and sees that — _finally, thank god_ — the reporter is making her way toward the door. 

At the same moment, Harper makes this screechy, obnoxious squeal of protest about something Jasper’s just said, and it has Clarke and her raging temper whirling toward the trio on the couch before she can claw herself back. “And you guys?”

They halt their bickering and turn to Clarke.

“Honestly, is all the shouting really necessary? It’s just a show. You’re arguing about a TV show. You get that, right?”

Three shocked faces blink back at her. 

Harper’s the first one to risk breaking the tense, abrupt silence that’s fallen over the room. She shares a look with Jasper and Monty before mumbling, _(in this small, pitiful, dejected voice):_ “Sorry, Clarke.” There’s a smattering of pink dusting her cheeks, and she won’t make eye contact with Clarke.

And Clarke feels instantly, horribly ashamed of herself. 

_Ugh. Way to go, asshole._

She drops her head and puts her hands on her hips, sighing heavily in an effort to drain some of the shaky anger out of her system. “No, it’s…” She glances up again, face scrunched in embarrassment. “Sorry, everybody. That was really shitty of me. So sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me, okay? Please. Just…carry on.”

Clarke’s about to turn away when her inner nerd objects, unable to let her go without tagging a _‘well, actually…’_ postscript to that. “Two things, though?” She points at Jasper, speaking in a rush. “Meereen happened in Season 6 and Daario was Tyroshi. He wasn’t from Braavos.”

Jasper pauses with a handful of french fries halfway to his mouth. He just stares at Clarke for a moment, wide-eyed and awed, then simply says: “Marry me.” 

He actually sounds pretty sincere about it, too. Perhaps Clarke might actually be forgiven for her rude tantrum.

She grins at him. _Doofus._

When Raven pipes up from over her shoulder, it surprises Clarke. “Yeah, if ya’ll are going to speak geek around Griffin, you better come correct,” she warns them. “She’ll bury you with this stuff.” 

Clarke hesitates, biting her lip, then turns back to Raven, her expression remorseful all over again. She can’t come up with anything except: “I’m so sorry.” Even that doesn’t feel right. She owes Raven so, so much more. 

Behind them, the group goes back to their discussion. _(At a much lower volume, though.)_

Raven sizes Clarke up briefly, then shoots a glance across the lobby. She must have not missed what was happening over there, either. She looks at Clarke. “It’s alright,” she replies, shrugging it off. “I get it. No worries. We’re good.” She pauses and juts her chin in the reporter’s direction. “And besides, no matter how hot she may be — and I can’t lie, because _damn._ ” She follows that up with a quirked eyebrow and slow head shake before giving Clarke a light shove with her shoulder. “You should know better by now, mmkay? So cut that shit out.” 

Clarke turns to watch the reporter’s exit, taking a second to just appreciate the fact that she gets to have Raven Reyes in her life. Because she can kind of be the best sometimes. _(She may also be appreciating the unreasonably attractive but decidedly disappointed frown the reporter’s wearing as she walks out the door, too. But that’s just a bonus…)_

She gives Raven a small, grateful smile, then gestures at the papers she’s holding. “Thank you for getting in touch with him. I mean that. Seriously, anything we can do at this point, I’m all for it.”

“Totally,” Raven says. She pauses and squints at the floor, then looks at Clarke again. “Don’t count us out yet, okay? We’ve still got a little time to turn this around.”

“Yeah,” Clarke mumbles, swallowing against the sudden choking feeling in her throat. She nods a few times before she can go on. “And god, without you, we’d be completely screwed, so, again. Thank you, Raven. So much. Sorry for being an ass.”

Raven smacks her with the stack of papers as she begins to move away. “I told you, we’re good.” She stops, peering at Clarke. “You okay, though?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Clarke pulls in a breath, forcing a smile onto her face. “I’m fine.”

Raven studies her for a moment longer, then squeezes her shoulder. “Alright, then. I’ll see you later.”

Once she’s gone, Clarke’s first stop is, of course, to check back in on Lexa. She’s absorbed in something on her phone now, and Clarke just looks at her, exhaling in a long, steady sigh.

She’s trying to hedge off the draggy, depressed feeling that’s stealing over her, but she knows it’s no use. It’s been chasing her down, and down, and down lately, and it’s getting harder to fend off. 

Because things haven’t been going well. 

And no, she’s not fine at all.

They’ve been trying to contact donors, because outside of some grand fundraising effort they don’t have time to arrange, donors are the fastest source of cash flow to help them fix the situation they’re in. So they’ve been hitting up any prospect they could think of who might have the funds to spare and isn’t already affiliated with _Gonakru_ in an effort to keep anyone else from discovering what they’re doing. (One misplaced phone call or re-routed email, and they could send the entire company into an uproar. Lexa would be furious.)

They started out so strong, too. Came up with a huge list of potential contacts, and jumped right in, convinced that the underdogs could totally pull this off, get this disaster sorted.

Since then, though…it’s been nothing but refusals and _‘maybe next time’s’,_ nearly everywhere they’ve turned.

Also? No matter how dedicated they are, or how hard they’re trying, they’re _so bad_ at this. 

This is way out of their collective skill set. They’re performers. Artists. _(And Raven, who defies any category anyone’s ever tried to wedge her into.)_ A bunch of staunchly right-brained, easily-distracted misfits who aren’t always great at communicating or remembering things, downright suck at organization, and probably wound up in the jobs they did for the simple fact that they are basically unhireable anywhere else. Clarke can deconstruct a play or discuss art all day long, but trying to keep tabs on who’s doing what, when, and where positively _exhausts_ her, scrambles her abilities. 

Not surprisingly, of the four of them, Lincoln’s been their standout player in both organizational prowess and schmoozing technique. He’s friendly, charming, and that lovely, weapon-of-mass-destruction smile of his gets him ushered right through most proverbial doors in a hurry. Almost every dime they’ve secured so far has been due to Lincoln closing out the deal for them. 

Hell, at this point, Clarke’s practically convinced he must be some kind of bona fide celestial being who emerged fully formed from an artesian spring of nothing but pure light and goodness somewhere, because he’s the only one among them who seems to be able to make a list of to-do items, and then _actually get them done._

Or not lose his list thirty seconds after he finishes writing it.

 _(True story, by the way. Not to point fingers or anything, but the person who did it? Her name rhymes with ‘Ark’.)_

They’ve had some minor success so far, but the hard, cold fact remains that they’ve been at this non-stop for the better part of a week, working every spare second they can carve out of their already-long schedules at the theater, and — beyond the funds Raven’s saved up — they haven’t even managed to scrape together enough money to buy a gently-used Toyota, much less cover the budget gap they’re facing.

And they have nine days left. That’s it. 

She glances back across the lobby, only this time, she finds Lexa looking at her. 

When Clarke notices, Lexa gives her this sweet, affectionate smile that reminds her of the way sunlight feels on a bitterly cold morning; the _ahh_ moment of stepping into those oh so welcome winter rays. It’s just nothing but warmth, and it hits Clarke square in the belly, spreading out to her fingertips. That heaviness begins to lift just a bit.

Lexa holds her eyes for a moment more, then turns toward the theater.

Clarke watches her leave, the heaviness settling right back in. 

And then there’s that.

It’s been like this the past few days.

There’s something different about the way Lexa is looking at her now, and she hasn’t been able to decipher it yet. It’s not Lexa shutting down…she’s seen that enough to spot it. But it sometimes seems like she’s miles away inside. Standing off in the distance, looking _back_ at Clarke, rather than _at_ her. And they’ve both been so busy she’s hardly had the time to even try to decipher it. It’s bothering her, though. 

Lexa’s still there, still sending soft glances and quiet words. And they’re both still keeping that channel linked, staying connected in subtle ways: Lexa’s fingers dusting along Clarke’s arm. Clarke sweeping a stray curl over Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa stopping by her dressing room to say good morning or simply check in. But it seems as if their version of _figuring things out day by day_ has become something akin to just marking time. Holding in place somewhere that’s more than what they were before all the revelations between them, but so much less than what either of them wants. Turning it all down while they deal with everything else going on around them. 

There’s definitely not been anything as forward as their encounter in the theater the other night, which has pretty much cemented Clarke’s earlier suspicion that some of that must have been Lexa pushing back at her a little. By this point, she’s been through enough rounds of verbal back-and-forth jousting with her for Clarke to have clued in to the fact that Lexa can be just the teensiest bit sensitive about teasing, no matter how unintentional it may have been. _(Undoubtedly a by-product of spending most of her awkward teenage years around Anya, because she just can’t even imagine…)_

But, in hindsight, Clarke _did_ sort of start it. 

A flashbulb goes off in her head then — _Lexa standing so close to her, dark eyes fixed on Clarke…_

She’s just started to cross the lobby toward the front doors, and when _that_ visual hits, Clarke trips over it.

It earns her a smirk and an over-the-shoulder side eye from Monty.

“Totally fine,” Clarke says, throwing a wobbly _‘A-OK’_ signal. Her red cheeks seem to indicate otherwise.

She continues on her path toward the front doors, staring out at the buildings across the street. _Good lord. Get it together._ She just stands there and breathes for a minute, her eyes wandering over the scene outside.

So, she already had that kiss to contend with. That’s been disrupting her enough since it happened, keeping her up at night and blindsiding her at random times, twirling her around. 

Now she has this, too. And despite whatever motivations brought it to the surface, just getting a glimpse of that side of Lexa has stirred up Clarke’s imagination so intensely she sometimes can’t stop thinking about it, no matter what she tries.

And even though Clarke absolutely _loved_ seeing it, Lexa has kind of ruined her. 

At the worst possible time.

Because she is _struggling so much right now._

When she first arrived at _Gonakru,_ Clarke had been alone for so long that she was already trapped in this sort of touch-starved prison of her own design. So even before this, the simplest contact with Lexa has always been capable of setting off all those wonderful, fall-apart feelings she’s been dealing with since they met. The _pull_ , the _roar_ , the shivers and chills and _thunderclap-somersault-skyrocket-freefall_ of Lexa, of all the different ways she affects Clarke.

But now?

She’s a _mess._ She’s irritable, she’s scattered, she can’t sleep, she keeps losing things…

 _(Like that missing to-do list. That happened right after Lexa had just brushed up against her while she was clearing a doorway. There may have been some slight skin-on-skin contact when Lexa’s hand skimmed over her hip as she was passing by, and it may have caused Clarke to have a slight and rather inconvenient mini-stroke.)_

She didn’t have a chance of remembering where she’d left her stupid list after that.

And, seriously, she already had enough stacked against her.

The most pressing thing being that she’s still fighting to hold it together any moment she thinks about the very real, very heart-stomping possibility that — in a little over a week — Lexa may be forced to sign on for a three-year sentence serving the whims of a greedy, soulless Hollywood exec who could also potentially destroy _Gonakru_ if Lexa so much as complains about the size of the cage Nia intends to throw her into. 

Which, of course, Clarke’s thinking about _constantly._

In fact, it’s spawned this unrelenting, internal panic that sometimes gets so out of control that now — whenever the notion comes crashing through and really starts to take her down — this self-preservation device kicks in and sends up a mental _do not fly_ list about the whole subject. _Sorry, you can’t travel there._ She just shuts off and runs the other way, her brain doing the equivalent of stuffing its fingers in its ears and shouting _“La, la, la, la, laaaaaah!”_ as she bounds off into the distance.

 _Level Four unlocked. Depression, anger, bargaining…and now denial. Well done, Griffin._

_(Acceptance is just never gonna happen, though. Fuck that.)_

So she’s got all this momentum winding her up, but it keeps getting shot through with each dismal dead end she runs into on the fundraising side of things, this muzzy, entirely distracting feeling that overtakes her any time she so much as passes too closely to Lexa, and the confounding new _god...whatever that is_ living in Lexa’s eyes these days. It’s all just sort of left her a stumbling wreck of missteps and _not-good-enough’s_ lately. 

She’s battling everything as best as she can. And even though she barely has a fucking clue what she’s doing, she’s trying _so hard_ to come through for Lexa, because failing…well, she can’t even consider that. (She truly can’t. She’s not allowed to, apparently.) 

_Good on ya, Level Four. Keep it up._

But _fuck_ , she’s in rough shape. 

And she only has nine days left.

Her subconscious can try to avoid the topic all it likes, but she can still _feel_ what’s happening inside her — the terrible, awful, sinking sensation that all of this is slipping right through her hands. 

Clarke’s never been one to resort to prayer before, but the past few days, she’s found herself calling on any higher power that might be listening. 

Because she could really use some sort of miracle right about now.

***********************

“So, I guess someone saying _‘go’_ right in your ear is just too ambiguous of a direction for you, Murphy?” Anya snarls.

“I went on your go, I just couldn’t get the damn brake to unlock,” Murphy argues, pointing at the set piece behind him.

They’re working through a massive scene change at the end of Act I which requires all available hands among both the cast and crew to be involved in moving several large sections of the set into position in a short amount of time. It’s a tricky, elaborate operation that Anya and Indra have coordinated down to the millimeter, but so far, the company hasn’t been able to cleanly accomplish it once during their last two rehearsals. Something or someone manages to muck it up every time they run through it. So, unfortunately, Anya’s refusing to let them move on today until they nail this down.

For their third consecutive attempt now, Murphy’s been the one who’s botched it. _(To say Anya’s maybe just a little bit pissed at him is kind of like saying K-Stew is maybe just a little bit into girls.)_

And Clarke’s stuck in the middle of their latest snit because she happens to be assigned the happy task of navigating the other side of the set piece that’s flummoxing Murphy so badly. Which means she’s in close range of the stage manager’s fury, too, and catching some shrapnel off everything Anya’s lobbing at him. _(Not to mention enjoying the added treat of Anya’s particular brand of “team member motivation”.)_

Every spittle-flying, heartwarming word of it. 

“Well, I could see how that would be a challenge for you, sure,” Anya hisses. “To pull a lever from _lock_ to _unlock._ So many intricate steps to follow there.”

Murphy ducks his head and exhales loudly through his nose, an angry, humiliated flush creeping over his collar, inching up. It’s like watching the gage on one of those old-timey thermometers. 

Clarke knows that things are going to go very poorly for him if he loses his cool and pops off with whatever smartass comeback she can see percolating behind his downcast eyes right now, so it wakes up her voice. 

“Um, the brake on my side has been kind of sticky, too.”

Anya flips her irate gaze to Clarke. 

And perhaps it’s because she’s so accustomed to seeing that same look of unmitigated disdain on Anya’s face by now, or simply that she’s just too strung out and exhausted to care much about her personal wellbeing anymore, but oddly enough — Clarke’s not all that scared this time. Her inner reaction is a bit more: _‘I could use an aspirin and a place to sit down, please’_ and less: _‘I could use a fresh set of pants, please’._ She tilts her chin up and meets Anya’s stare with a bored, unruffled one of her own.

“Is that right?” Anya says, her tone plummeting down to an ominous rasp. “Because everything seemed to be working just fine this morning when my deck crew checked it over. But maybe carpentry is just another one of your special skills, huh, Griffin? I mean, you already have so many…” 

Clarke keeps her blank look carefully intact, refusing to rise to the bait Anya’s quite literally spitting at her right now.

When Anya doesn’t get the clapback out of her she was clearly hoping for, she rakes her eyes over Clarke and curls her lip before addressing the rest of the company. “Alright, everyone,” she shouts. “Stand by and don’t you dare wander off. We’ll run it again in a few.” She turns to Monroe and Miller and stabs a finger at the set piece. “Check out the brakes on that wagon, okay?”

At that, Anya stalks over to talk to Niylah. 

Everyone on stage seems to take a collective breath. 

Clarke steps back to let Monroe and Miller work, noticing Lexa walking onstage. She catches Clarke’s eye, looking at her in that faraway, frustrating manner, and it strikes the nervy spot in Clarke’s head where she’s been puzzling it over. She watches Lexa as she stops to speak with Lincoln. 

There are parts of her that have always simply _known_ things about Lexa. Even from the first moment she walked into her life, something in Lexa called out to her, and something in Clarke answered. It was just _there._ As real and true as the blood in her veins or the air in her lungs, and it seemed just as essential. So much so that Clarke could actually _feel_ the shift when it happened: that shutter-click flash when all of the things she’d bundled up and called _self_ just turned around, and pointed her toward Lexa like a flower seeking light. _There. That’s what you’ve been waiting for._

Clarke tried to ignore it, anyway. Tried to shut it off. Even tried to refuse the concept outright, but it never once _went away._ So she never lost those unshakable certainties about her, either. _Lexa is wounded. Lexa is kind. Lexa is fierce…_

But Lexa is also _mystifying,_ in so many ways. Because even though Clarke has these truths, and even though she’s gotten better at reading her _(sometimes, anyway, because she does NOT make it easy…),_ there’s still just so much about Lexa she _doesn’t know._ She wants to. She’s positively fascinated to know. 

So these strange new looks…it’s not simply the _unable-to-sort-them-out_ factor that’s unsettling Clarke. It’s coming from someplace else inside. And wherever that is, it seems to be telling her that — even if she doesn’t understand yet — she _should._

Like a warning. 

Lexa crosses the stage, approaching Murphy and Clarke. When their eyes connect, she gives Clarke a muted smile. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, indicating the set piece.

“Yeah,” Clarke nods. “Just a slight problem, nothing big.”

Anya overhears them. “Yeah, a slight problem called Murphy can’t pull his head out of his —”

“That’s enough, Anya,” Lexa snaps, cutting her off. There’s a flash in her eyes, something with a distinct edge to it. _Watch yourself._

Anya faces off with Lexa just long enough for her posturing to be considered defiant, but she turns back to Niylah before it crosses over into blatant disrespect, her jaw set at a hard, grumpy angle. 

It’s always so astonishing to Clarke that Lexa — who has such a capacity for softness and sweetness — can command that kind of deference from the stage manager. It’s just another aspect of the immense, wonderfully-complex structure of Lexa’s makeup, that unquestionable strength she exudes. _(It could also be that, regardless of how upset she may get, Lexa never goes after anyone’s dignity. That’s off-limits, and Anya knows better than to trespass over those boundaries.)_

After an apologetic glance at Murphy, Lexa sighs softly and steps closer to Clarke, lowering her voice. “So is everything okay with you? You seem a little…”

Clarke tilts her head at her, not realizing until that moment that she’d been staring at Lexa’s eyes. “Uh…I’m a bit tired, that’s all,” she says, blinking a few times to recalibrate. “But how about you? I saw earlier…um…” Her mouth twists into a small, wry frown as she arches an eyebrow at Lexa. “It seems like your interview went well.”

Lexa snickers quietly, folding her arms. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Clarke just raises her eyebrow even higher.

“I hate giving interviews. Hate. It.”

“Well, you certainly fake it well,” Clarke replies, and she can hear the low key snark bleeding through. _She didn’t do anything wrong, Clarke. Don’t take this out on her._ “That reporter looked rather charmed by you.”

A line forms between Lexa’s eyes. She cuts her gaze to Clarke. “She was very…bubbly.”

“Bubbly?” 

“I don’t know…enthusiastic? Maybe that’s the better word.”

A pause. And she’s _trying_ — she truly is — to ward this off, but the tiny, jealous surge swimming through her right now has other plans. 

“Well, you’re the writer, Lexa.” Said in what her mom used to always refer to as: _‘a tone, Clarke’. (And it used to aggravate her to no end. Every. Time.)_

She can see it, Lexa’s gears turning. Her perplexed _(but so cute, damn it)_ little pursed-lip frown. The way her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as she searches Clarke’s face for clues, like she can’t quite unravel what blunder she’s made here. 

_Of course she can’t, and you know why? Because she didn’t do anything. So quit it._

“I mean, she was very nice, I’m not saying that, she was just…” Lexa trails off, checking Clarke’s reaction carefully. 

Whatever she finds there has her hastening to change course. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s over, that’s all.” She dips her head down and shrugs, shuffling her feet.

And it’s the sudden reappearance of adorable, flustered Lexa that finally swats away Clarke’s icky moment of insecurity. Because for the first time in days, it feels _right._ Familiar. She knows the steps to this dance. It’s not the ugly, raw hurt they’ve waded through recently, or the panic still seizing her up. Not the _can’t-move-forward_ stasis between them or that infuriating, strange distance in Lexa’s eyes. 

It’s simply… _god, this woman._ This beautiful, amazing woman who spins her up and tears her apart and drives her absolutely crazy, in every conceivable way, like no one _ever_ has before. And she’s just…

 _So. Much._

Clarke watches her as Lexa stands there fidgeting — with that gorgeous pout tugging at her mouth, and every second-guess thought she’s having right now tumbling across her face — and something inside of her completely _melts._ It kicks her caution aside. Makes her forget about where they are, who they’re supposed to be, what they’re supposed to be doing. This is too important to hold back. 

So she takes a step forward and reaches out, gently rubbing her thumb across that impossibly soft spot at Lexa’s wrist that she loves to touch. It’s a small gesture; if anyone were to glance over right now, they probably wouldn’t even notice it, but — to Clarke — it’s everything. A connection she hadn’t realized she needed so badly until that exact moment, with the woman she’s somehow recognized from the beginning. As if Clarke already knew her by heart. 

Or as if Clarke already knew she could never, ever place Lexa anywhere else. 

Lexa lifts her eyes, and there’s a note of mild surprise, but also…relief. 

Clarke grins. “Hey,” she murmurs. 

She swallows and watches Clarke for a moment, something shifting in her gaze that’s almost like the way light bends through a window, changes shape. Clarke can’t quite pin down what’s going on in there. 

Finally, Lexa just says: “Clarke…”

But whatever she’s about to tell her gets snuffed by Anya’s deafening call of: _“Okay, let’s run it back, everyone!”_ from behind them. 

They both jump.

Clarke fires a glare at Anya, then turns back to Lexa, her heart thudding an erratic triple-time tempo in her chest. “Jesus. She’s a little tough on the nerves, that one,” she whispers.

Lexa laughs softly and leans closer to her. _(Which doesn’t help Clarke’s pulse rate quit stumbling over itself one bit.)_ “She can be,” she whispers back. 

As she’s turning away, Lexa locks gazes with her and gives this sly little smirk that is just _unfair_ , leaving Clarke standing there half-dazed and useless, her belly full of flutters.

Her eyes follow Lexa as she heads off to the edge of the stage. She slowly looks the director up and down, and that’s all it takes for a vivid assortment of those indisputably _NSFW_ images she’s been grappling lately to flood in and assault her.

Clarke heaves a quick, sharp breath, wrenching herself out of it. _Augh. Stop that._

_Working, remember? You’re working right now._

She steals another glance at Lexa, anyway. 

_God._

_Absolutely ruining me._

With a shake of her head, she finally manages to get her feet moving, and hurries over to join the rest of the company.

As Clarke and Murphy walk up to their spots behind the set piece, Anya passes by them. She can’t seem to resist tossing over one more helpful piece of advice. “Remember, it’s UN-lock, Murphy. That’s what we’re going for. _UNnnnn-lock_ …” 

Murphy gulps and tucks his chin, shooting a fretful, _‘here-goes-nothing’_ face at Clarke.

Lexa takes over from there. “Okay, Lincoln,” she directs from her spot downstage. “Let’s pick it up from your lead lines into this.”

Lincoln nods and moves to his mark beside Octavia and Echo. He turns toward them. “Then perhaps we should ask Saul ourselves. Find out exactly whose message he’s sending.” 

They make their way offstage.

“Aaaand, lights out — stand by for stage left…” Anya calls, pacing at the edge of the stage. “Stage left… _go.”_

The stage left team rolls their set pieces on.

“Stand by for stage right…” 

Clarke braces against her side of set piece in preparation, her hand hovering over the brake mechanism that she has to unlock to get the cumbersome set piece moving. She flicks a glance at Murphy. His hand is twitching over the brake on his side, his mouth flattened out to a grim line. He looks so nervous right now. Clarke can’t blame him in the least. Anya’s wrath is mean _(and slightly wet_ ) and takes a toll on anyone who’s suffered it more than once. 

The stage left team finishes parking their set pieces and locks them in place.

“Stage right… _go.”_

Clarke flips the lock and shoves her shoulder into the set piece to get it rolling. It shudders forward a couple inches, then jerks to a stop. 

She cuts her eyes to Murphy’s side.

He’s apparently worked himself up into such an anxious wreck he’s missed Anya’s cue this time, and is now struggling with the lock. It’s jammed a bit with Clarke’s movement on the other side; he’s having trouble getting it unstuck.

So when it finally pops free, Clarke’s not ready. The heavy set piece lurches forward, the castors underneath it groaning to life, and since she’s kind of off-balance, Clarke ends up slamming her arm against the wooden supports along the back. 

She knocks into them _hard_ — the impact is enough to send an excruciating dagger of pain shooting down her arm and into her fingers, making them tingle. _Owwww…_ She grits her teeth and keeps pushing her side of the set piece forward, anyway.

They make it to their mark late. Again. 

Anya’s already calling the next cues. “Lights up… _go.”_

Clarke and Murphy lock their set piece into place. If this were an actual performance, they’d be in full view of the audience right now, and would have to scuttle offstage like a couple of overgrown, disgraced cockroaches.

As soon as Murphy gets done, his head snaps toward Clarke. He’s pale and sweating and terrified. _(With good reason.)_ “Are you okay —“

“—Are you serious with this, Murphy?” Anya shouts from behind them.

Murphy’s eyes widen. 

Clarke stares back at him. In her periphery, she spots Anya charging toward them fast, and Clarke knows — the second she gets here? Oh, the carnage. She’s going to rip Murphy _apart._

“How are you still screwing this up? I mean, honestly…how?” Anya stomps up to them, the volume of her yelling growing louder and louder with each step. Murphy still hasn’t been able to tear his eyes off Clarke. 

“Unlock, push, lock. It’s three damn things to do, Murphy, and somehow… _somehow_ …you’re screwing it up. Why is this so goddamn difficult for you?”

Lexa walks up to them. “Anya…” she says lowly.

“Nope. Not this time,” Anya protests, reeling on her. “This is a safety issue, Lexa, and it needs to be handled.” She flings a hand in Murphy’s direction. “He could hurt someone if he keeps —“

“It was me that time,” Clarke breaks in.

All three of them swivel to look at her.

And Clarke has nary a fucking clue what’s possessing her at this moment. There’s just something about the way Murphy’s flinching right now that slices into her, strikes that place that always flares hot when she feels like someone’s being picked on. Anya’s not entirely wrong, and she knows that. _(Her injured arm is a fine, throbbing example of the point the stage manager’s just made. Because, seriously…ow.)_

But it’s too late to do anything about it now except lean in and keep going, sell the lie. 

“Yeah, totally me that time,” she says, nodding toward the set piece. “Had some trouble on my side that held Murphy up, made us late. Sorry about that.” She looks around the room at the rest of the company, raising her _(not sore)_ hand. “Sorry, everybody. My fault.”

Anya’s eyes narrow. “So, what? I guess his incompetence is contagious now?” she sneers, pointing at Murphy.

Murphy’s jaw clenches, his eyes falling to the floor.

 _Alright. Fine. We’re taking the low road, then._ Clarke sighs and gives Anya a cool shrug. “What can I say? I must have been too caught up in all that positive feedback you’ve been slinging at us today, Anya. Got overconfident.”

Anya’s eyes narrow even more.

Murphy snorts.

Lexa’s eyebrow ticks up. She pins Clarke with a look that’s equal parts amused and _‘you just made this so much worse for us all’_ , then pivots toward Anya before the stage manager has a chance to lay into Clarke. (Because she’s about to, no doubt about that. And Clarke has a feeling whatever Anya was ready to unleash on her would have _stung.)_

“One more time,” Lexa says to Anya. “Let’s run it through one more time. And if we don’t get it, we’ll reassess and switch up assignments if we need to.”

Anya finally draws her murderous gaze away from Clarke and looks at Lexa. “Sure. Whatever. Not like it’s going to matter…but hey, it’s your show, not mine.” She clomps away from them, shouting: “Run it back, everyone!” 

A chorus of muffled groans rises up from around the stage.

Murphy turns to Clarke. “Why did you —?”

Clarke waves him off. She’s hurt, she’s cranky, and nearly all of her internal tanks are down to nothing more than vapor right now, but there’s no way in _hell_ she’s going to let Anya win this one. “Listen, you can totally do this. You can. So, we’re going to try again, and we’re going to nail it, you understand? Because, I swear to god, Murphy, if you keep letting her get in your head and you fuck this up one more time, I’ll come after you, myself. Got it?”

Murphy just gives her a mute nod. He’s looking at her as if — in the contest of most serious threat in the room — Clarke maybe just rocketed to the top of the leader board. 

“Good.” She smacks him in the stomach with the back of her hand. “Now shake it off and come on…”

As they begin to head back to reset for the next go round, Lexa steps in front of Clarke, blocking her path. 

She tucks her hands into her pockets and regards Clarke for a moment, then says, deadpan: “Is your arm okay?”

Clarke stares at her and sighs, biting her bottom lip. _Shit._

Lexa smirks. “I know why you did it. It’s alright. She was out of line.”

When Clarke can’t seem to find more of an immediate response for that except to shrug _(once again, it’s the smirk that gets her)_ , Lexa tilts her head, her eyes roving over Clarke’s face. She gives this short, disbelieving laugh, then starts to head back to her spot at the edge of the stage. 

As she passes by Clarke, she leans in close, and suddenly it’s just those so green eyes and that yummy sandalwood smell Clarke adores so much and _my god, those lips…_

Clarke snaps out of it, meeting Lexa’s eyes. 

“Be careful,” Lexa says, smiling at her. 

Clarke nods once, swallowing hard. _Go, Griffin. Keep moving. Work to do, work to do, work to do…_

She pries her gaze away from Lexa and walks off as fast as she can.

When she posts up next to Murphy this time, they exchange a brief, determined glance. “You’ve totally got this,” Clarke assures him once more.

For just a moment, Murphy actually looks like he believes her.

“Here we go,” Anya announces. _(In a way that sounds like she’s already prepared herself to be utterly disappointed all over again.)_

Lincoln delivers his cue line. “Then perhaps we should ask Saul ourselves. Find out exactly whose message he’s sending.” 

_“Aaaand, lights out…”_

Their next try? 

_Seamless._

And the smile Lexa gives her afterward makes Clarke forget all about how much her arm still hurts. It’s just that good.

**********************

_“Psst.”_

Clarke whips her head over her shoulder, peering into the shadows backstage. She’s lingering at the edge of the wings, waiting for Lexa to finish up with Lincoln and Echo before they move on to the next scene, but she’s catching enough of the stage lights in her eyes that it’s really difficult to see what’s going on behind her.

“Psst.” Closer now.

Clarke squints harder. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Said low. And _right in her ear._

“Jesus!” Clarke jumps, spinning to her other side. She’s finally able to make out the shape of Octavia’s profile in the darkness. She swats at her, but doesn’t manage to connect with anything. “What the hell, O?”

“Sorry,” Octavia whispers. “Listen…real quick. There’s something we wanted to run by you.”

“We?”

Octavia turns and motions at the shadows behind them, and a second later, Raven’s face swims into focus over her shoulder.

“Yo, Griffin.”

“So, we were talking…” Octavia says, keeping her voice down and her eyes on Lexa across the stage. “What do you think about crowdsourcing this thing a little?”

It takes Clarke a moment to parse through what she’s asking, but when it clicks, her face closes off immediately. “Nope, not a chance.”

“But, wait…hear us out,” Raven defends, pushing closer to Clarke. “Maybe if we spread this out some, you know, let more people in the company know what’s going on, maybe we’d have a better shot of actually fixing our problem.”

“Absolutely not,” Clarke replies with a firm shake of her head. “It was the one thing Lexa asked of me. I can’t betray her trust like that.”

Raven snickers. “Listen to you. Betray. How dramatic. I swear, Clarke, you’re like one of those bodice-ripping, _Univision_ soaps sometimes. It’s adorable.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and checks in on the group across the stage. Lexa looks like she’s almost done.

“Look, which is worse?” Raven says, pressing from another angle. “Telling a few more people in the company, and Lexa finding out about it? Or not telling anyone, not being able to pull this off, and just standing by while Lexa has to peace out and get stuck living in _Smell-A_ for the next few fucking years?”

“I said no, Raven,” Clarke grumbles. “I won’t do it.”

“But —“

“No.”

“Alright,” Octavia breaks in, holding up her hands. “Okay. Figured that would be your answer, but we wanted to ask, anyway.” She hesitates. “Things are just kind of looking grim, sister. I mean, the other night, Lincoln even suggested the idea of maybe trying to get in touch with Costia’s family, but...”

Clarke drops her head forward. “Even if it worked, you know Lexa would never accept that,” she states in a dull, flat voice. “And she’d probably never forgive Lincoln for asking them.”

“Figured that, too. That’s why we didn’t even bother bringing it up.” She sighs and grips Clarke’s shoulder, turning to go. “He just wants to keep her here as much as the rest of us, that’s all.”

She slips back into the shadows.

Clarke shifts, trying to dislodge the bleak panic O’s just triggered inside of her. _(Gratefully, that familiar “La-la-laaaah!” routine is already on it…)_ She looks over at Lexa again; it appears as if she’s finished with Lincoln and Echo, and they’re all readying for the scene to get back underway. Clarke has an entrance coming up soon, so she needs to pay attention.

Raven’s still standing beside her, though. She’s staring across the stage, and when she senses her watching, she turns her troubled gaze back to Clarke. “This is fucking killing me.”

And that hammers right through Clarke’s composure. She has to slide her eyes away from Raven. When she speaks again, her throat feels scratched and achy. “I know, Raven. I know.”

There’s a quiet rustling sound behind them. Clarke peeks over her shoulder, expecting to see Octavia emerge from the darkness again.

She does not, however, expect to see Anya standing there.

Clarke startles, firing a quick glance at Raven, who looks just as anxious and caught out as she probably does right now.

“He-eey, Anya,” Raven says, forcing as much innocence into it as Raven will ever be capable of. “You looking for me?”

Anya glances down at her clipboard, a twitchy, distracted frown suffusing over her features. She looks a bit frazzled, which is an unusual color for Anya. “No, I, uh…” She clears her throat, then juts her chin toward Clarke. “Looking for her, actually. Your costume fitting’s been pushed back an hour. You’re at 8:00 now.”

Even her voice sounds different. There’s a denseness to it Clarke can’t quite identify. Something… _off._ She squints against the gloom, trying to get a better look at Anya’s face. “O-okay. No problem.” She pauses. “Um, thank you, Anya.”

Anya nods once and stares down at her clipboard again.

Clarke hears her cue line.

“…Has anyone actually questioned Devin about this?” Echo says. “Or did you just assume that was how it happened?”

And she’s just about to step out onstage when Anya mutters: “What did you…?”

Clarke halts, twisting back to look at her.

Anya takes a step forward. And it’s enough to catch a tiny scrap of light from the stage, enough for her features to sharpen up, enough for Clarke to see that… _oh my god._

_Shaken._ The term flickers in Clarke’s head like a bulb burning out. Anya looks totally, completely _shaken_ at that moment.

She hears the tail end of Echo repeating her cue. “…Or did you just assume that was how it happened?” 

But Clarke can’t move. She’s just riveted on Anya right now, her stomach clenching in on itself. Because she knows, before Anya even finishes what she’s about to say…she already _knows._

She’s just committed one of the worst mistakes she could ever possibly make.

“What did you all say about Lexa?” Anya asks quietly. 

Clarke stares at her, horrified. She opens her mouth, but…nothing. She can’t get any sounds out.

Echo tries one more time. “…Or did you just assume…”

And then Anya’s gone, disappearing into the darkness. 

“Shit,” Raven says, stumbling after her for a few steps. She whirls back. “Go, dude. I’ll catch up with her.” She flutters her hands toward the stage, shooing Clarke. “Go.” 

She takes off after Anya.

Somehow, Clarke turns on her heel and shuffles onstage, wincing against the sudden brightness. She walks to her mark in a trance, ignores the faint concern from Lincoln and Echo, the _‘are you okay, you’ve never missed an entrance’_ in their eyes. She says something. And even though she can’t really hear it, can’t make sense of it, it must be the right line, because Echo nods and continues on with the scene, doing her best to recapture the rhythm Clarke’s so inexplicably thrown them out of.

Clarke swivels her gaze toward the house, searching for any sign of Anya or Raven, but she doesn’t find them anywhere. Her head is spinning so hard she can hardly focus on anything, really, and then… 

Then…she sees Lexa. 

She’s sitting on the front row, in her usual spot, hands tucked into fists beneath her chin, watching them. When she notices Clarke, her eyes take on that gentle, soft glow that catches Clarke in the chest _every single time_ she sees it. The one that feels like her heart actually swells up at least three sizes larger because deep down…there will always be a part of her that still can’t quite believe someone like Lexa could ever look at her that way. It just seems too impossible. 

And she thinks: _Raven was so wrong._

 _When you’ve just destroyed something like that, even a word like betray doesn’t weigh enough._

********************

To Clarke, the hallway leading to Lexa’s office has never seemed darker or longer than it does at this precise moment.

She can hear them already, Lexa and Anya. The clipped tones of argument — that certain razor-tipped cadence a voice can adopt when the anger rises and rises, spills over, lashes out. Clarke’s been there so many times: with her mom, with Finn, with the numerous friends she tossed over or discarded during her wilder days, back when she could numb herself down to her meanest parts, say things for no other reason than knowing how much they’d hurt.

She used to be such a master at arguing, too. Knew just how to uncover the all the sore spots and dig right in, drop her opponent in a matter of a few well-placed assertions, or — if it got really nasty — a wicked insult or two. There were stretches of her life when Clarke felt like she rarely left a fight clean, staggering off afterward with a dinged-up conscience, her knuckles stained black with someone else’s heartache, or pride. The winning was all she wanted. So what if she had to wear the price of it home. 

But times have changed, and Clarke’s lost her taste for conquests. She’s learned some things since then. 

Because nothing about what’s happening in Lexa’s office sounds much like winning. 

And she understands now that no one ever walks away from a fight clean.

And what it costs you? Well. Once you put that on, you’ll always wear it. You can’t get rid of that. 

Clarke stands at the end of the hallway and stares at Lexa’s door, debating.

_I shouldn’t be out here._

_But this is all my fault. I can’t just…_

_I have to talk to her, at least._

She takes a few steps closer. As she nears the office, their words form up, start filtering in for her.

“How can you even consider this?” Anya growls, and there’s a noise — her palms slapping against something solid, like the wall, maybe. “How can you —“

“I’m not considering it. I’m doing it.” Clarke can picture Lexa’s face as she’s saying it, too. That obstinate lift of her chin, the dead set finality in her eyes.

“Lexa…”

“No, I’m not rehashing this with you again. I’ve told you why. It’s over.” 

“Really? Just because you say so, huh? Like hell it is. If you think for a second that I’m going to let this go —“

“Anya, we’re not doing this right now —“

Anya cuts her off. “— And I am _so_ pissed at you for keeping this from me, too. I mean, seriously, Lex, of everyone here, don’t I at least deserve…” She trails off, and Clarke can hear the indignation in her tone, sure, but underneath it all, Anya just sounds _hurt._ “When were you going to tell me?”

Lexa is quiet for a moment. Before she speaks again, she lets out an extended breath, as if she’s been holding it. “With the rest of the company. Opening night.”

Silence. 

Clarke waits. _I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t be listening to this. I shouldn’t be…_

“Opening night,” Anya responds at last. “When it would be too late to stop you.”

Another pause. Then…

_Crash!_

_That_ gets Clarke moving.

She races into the doorway, doing a fast threat-level sweep of the room: _Anya near the bookshelves, Lexa behind her desk, no blood, no broken glass, no…oh._ Clarke’s eyes fall on the heap of play scripts strewn at Anya’s feet, the source of all the commotion dawning on her in an instant. _Bookshelves. She must have hit the bookshelves._

Clarke slowly raises up. 

She focuses on Anya, because she simply can’t face Lexa, not yet. She’s not sure what she’ll find waiting there, and she’s just not ready to know.

When their eyes meet, Anya’s expression thins, and closes off, the hurt leached out of it until the only thing left showing is bitter and resentful. More in tune with the attitude the stage manager typically displays around mixed company. She doesn’t seem surprised to see Clarke. She also doesn’t seem all that bothered by her sudden arrival here, turning back toward Lexa and tipping a nod in Clarke’s direction as if she were just another nuisance in the series of nuisances she’s already dealt with today. 

“Christ, even _she_ knew before I did, Lexa.”

After a moment more, Clarke swallows and finally drags her gaze across the room. 

Lexa won’t look at her.

Not a good sign.

Lexa’s staring at the desk, instead, a muscle working in her jaw. She must be able to feel Clarke’s eyes on her. “Can we continue this later, please, Anya?” Her voice is even, but Clarke can hear the effort she’s making to shave her emotions down. She’s finished with this conversation.

Anya ignores her. She folds her arms and steps closer to the desk. “This is wrong, and you know it. You can’t abandon the company you built — that I _helped you build_ …” And here she stops, dipping her head down while she works to wrestle herself back from wherever that was about to take her.

Lexa attempts to deter her again. “As I said…later, okay? I need a minute to…Anya, I just need a minute.” She’s quieter now, but the strain along her jawline has tightened, and there’s a telltale edginess to her that means Lexa has almost reached the limits of her ability to maintain control. She doesn’t look up.

It only seems to make Anya push harder. She casts a quick glance at Clarke before leaning in, dropping her volume. “You’re asking me to step aside and watch you do something that goes against everything we’ve created, everything we stand for here.” Something in the way she’s looking at Lexa changes, softens up. “You know this isn’t what she would have wanted. Not like this.”

Across the room, Clarke’s eyes narrow to slits. _Oh, fuck you, Anya. Fuck. You._

Lexa seems to have the same reaction, because it’s like her detonator flips. She rears up and levels Anya with a blistering glare. _(And Clarke catches the look of shock that lights over Anya’s face before she smooths it out — the moment it whams home for her that she’s gone too far.)_

“Don’t you think I know that?” Lexa raps her fists against the top of the desk in frustration. “Don’t you think if there were any other way —“

“There’s always another way!” Anya argues, raising her voice.

 _Okay, nope. No one’s yelling at Lexa right now, not even…_ “Hey —” Clarke jumps in, taking a step toward them.

Anya reels on Clarke. And it’s almost as if she’s itching to tear into Clarke with her _teeth_ at this point, she’s so furious. “Don’t you even fucking start with me, Griffin. This doesn’t concern you.”

That low-grade temper Clarke’s been fending off all day and Anya’s over-the-top intimidation tactics crack something wide open inside of her, and when Anya pushes closer to Clarke, she just stands her ground. “Oh, this concerns me plenty…” Clarke rumbles. 

Clarke knows she’s making a hideous error in judgment at this moment, she does. 

She knows she’s probably about to be swiftly and resoundingly dumped on her ass, too — Anya’s fast and wiry and _super_ strong, and Clarke hasn’t lifted more than a paintbrush since _Skytide._

But she can’t seem to back down. _Because, seriously…fuck you, Anya._

“Enough!” Lexa’s voice is so loud and harsh it actually startles both of them, severing their puffed-up showdown. 

They look over at her in tandem. 

“This does nothing. This solves nothing,” Lexa says, shaking her head. Her eyes fall on Anya as she motions toward the door. “Now, please…Anya…just…”

Anya stares at her.

“Please,” Lexa says again, a note of desperation slipping into it.

With one final snarl for Clarke, Anya storms out the door, slamming it behind her so hard a few more books clatter off the shelf, joining the victims of her first attack still scattered across the floor. 

It’s quiet for a long moment. 

Clarke focuses on the pile of fallen books, still unable to look at Lexa yet. 

Gradually, though, the silence grows too stifling for her. She opens with a familiar refrain. “I’m sorry.”

Lexa doesn’t respond. 

And that’s what finally gets Clarke to lift her head.

Lexa’s just watching her, and her eyes… _yeah._ She’s farther away than ever.

Clarke swallows roughly, looking away. Even though it’s entirely deserved, it hurts too much to see that right now.

There’s a low, heavy sigh, the sounds of movement. Then, quietly: “Anya said you all have been working on something to stop me from leaving.”

Clarke freezes. _Oh. Crap. Did she have to…?_

 _Ugh. Of course she did. Because Anya’s the worst._

When she glances up again, Lexa’s crouched by the bookshelf, her back to Clarke, rearranging the mess Anya left behind.

“What have you been doing, Clarke?”

Nausea curdles in Clarke’s gut; she closes her eyes against it, fights it back. _You knew this was coming, now stand up and face it. You let her down._

“Trying to help. Trying to find a way for you to stay with _Gona—“_

“But what have you been _doing?_ ” And this time… _anger._ It’s subdued, but it’s there.

Clarke opens her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. She’s never seen Lexa actually angry before, but she’s certain she doesn’t like it at all. “Contacting donors,” she admits softly. “Potential donors, anyway. Pretty much anybody we could find who might be able to help.”

Lexa’s hand stills over the book she’s placing on the shelf. “I see,” she eventually replies.

“I know you’re mad at me. I get that, and you’re fully entitled to be mad at me. I’m so sorry about Anya. It was a complete accident. We didn’t know she was there, and…god, Lexa, I’m so sorry.” Clarke’s speaking so fast her words are blurring together, but the stiffness of Lexa’s reply has her panicking a little. This is another uncharted version of Lexa she simply doesn’t know how to navigate yet.

“Anya…it complicates things for me, but…” Lexa slots another book back into its place a bit more forcefully than she needs to. “I’m actually more upset about the donors.”

That throws Clarke. “Why would you…? I mean, we were just trying to help. Why would you be upset about —“

Lexa turns toward her. There’s a dangerous, storm-tossed glint in her eyes that speeds Clarke’s pulse and knots up her stomach all over again. “Why would I be upset? You’ve been contacting donors — people I don’t know — asking them for money behind my back, for _my_ company, and you don’t think I should be upset by that?”

“Well, no…I mean, that’s not what I’m saying, it’s just…”

“Clarke, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was trying to keep our finances under wraps for a reason? That maybe I was trying to maintain our reputation in order to preserve the support we do have? You don’t understand how delicate some of this can be. If it looks like we’re failing, if it seems like the work we’re doing here isn’t worth investing in, that can place us at risk of losing donors, as well. That can also keep us from attracting new ones.”

 _Oh._ Clarke stares at her, suddenly feeling not only sick and dizzy, but foolish, too. “I…I didn’t realize…” she stammers, then halts, dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry, Lexa.” 

“No, it’s…” A deep inhalation of breath. Lexa’s tone is softer, at least, when she says: “You just didn’t know. But that’s because I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I trusted you to believe me when I said this was our only solution right now.”

And, _god_ …does that make Clarke feel even worse. For a minute, it’s all she can see. Just those same three words, rolling on a loop through her head. _‘I trusted you…’_

She squints at the floor, struggling to regain some of her footing. Clarke can’t quite shake the queasy sensation that she’s careening off the edge of a skyscraper right now. “Will you at least…?” she begins, hesitant and hushed. She clears her throat and keeps going. “I mean, just with the people we’ve already contacted. Will you at least let me keep trying?”

“No.” Immediate. Firm.

Clarke raises up, and… _there it is._ There’s something she knows. Lexa’s stubborn, determined, _‘not-gonna-budge’_ face. It prods Clarke’s frustration to the surface, starches up that place where her courage resides. “But…if the damage is already done, why not? Let me at least try to —“

“No…”

“But maybe if you helped us, you know? If we worked together, we could —“

“No, Clarke. Just…will you please not —“

“Lexa, I don’t think you get what you’re walking into, here, Nia is…”

Lexa’s eyes sharpen. She moves closer to Clarke, her stance shifting right back to the angrier set it held a moment ago. “Oh, I have no illusions there, trust me.”

The ferocity of her tone finally makes Clarke stop, searching Lexa’s expression. 

“I know exactly what kind of a person Nia is, and I know exactly what I’m in for.” Lexa pulls her eyes away from Clarke, staring out her office window. A look of completely heartbreaking _regret_ passes across her face before she turns back. 

“I’m grateful that you want to help,” she says quietly. “Please don’t ever think I’m not grateful for that. And if the situation were different, Clarke…” She trails off, staring at her in that same devastating, stricken manner. “I would absolutely look for another way. But this is how it is. This is how it has to be. And I’m trying…I’m trying _so hard_ …to reconcile it.”

She hesitates for only a second or two before she walks over to Clarke, reaching out and taking her hand. There’s an unsteadiness to the way she’s holding herself right now, a slight tremor in the fingers curled around Clarke’s. “This isn’t easy for me. None of this…” Their eyes connect. “…is easy for me. But I’m trying. In my own way, and as much as I can, I’m trying to let go.”

Clarke looks at Lexa for a moment. 

And when it all aligns for her, snicks together with this terrible, high-pitched _clang_ like someone’s just rung a bell inside her skull — it’s as if the pressure drops out of the room. Her chest feels tight, and she can’t seem to get enough air all of a sudden. 

The distance in Lexa’s eyes. That preternatural, cautionary feeling that’s been nudging her, whispering to her, making her twitch…

It was all there, and she _just didn’t get it until now._

Because she’s finally figured out what Lexa’s been doing.

She’s trying to let go of _her,_ too.

And something in Clarke already knew… _goddamn it_ , somehow she already _knew_ …exactly what it looks like when Lexa says goodbye. 

Clarke draws in a ragged breath, pulling away from Lexa. She backs up and just _stares_ , working to get a handle on the upturned, lightheaded feeling spinning through her. Her legs are shaking. 

“I’ve been…” Lexa says, watching Clarke. Her hand stretches out again, just a little, and she makes this small, helpless gesture before she just gives up and folds it back against her side. “There’s this part of me that I feel like I’m just at war with, constantly. Between wanting things to be different, and knowing that they can’t be. So I’m trying to just be here now, eyes open. Take everything I possibly can from the time I have left…” 

She looks at Clarke, swallowing hard, and something flares past the worry in her eyes, intensifies their color. “So I can remember. But I also have to be able to do the rest, to step back. And I have to be able to do that in my own way.” 

She halts after that, keeping her eyes veiled from Clarke. 

All of this is so difficult for her to say. She’s struggling so much right now, but Clarke can’t do anything to make it any better. They’re both just caught out in the open here: Lexa taking herself apart right in front of her, while Clarke tries to hold herself together. 

When Lexa finally resumes, her voice has gone scratchy, and low. “So hoping for something else…it makes things harder for me. Can you understand that?”

Clarke can’t recall a time she’s felt this stupid. 

The reason she’s been unable to consider what comes next…it’s not just some coping mechanism. It’s because she’s never let herself believe it would _actually happen._

She’s been convinced she was going to beat this thing, that she would always have a chance with Lexa. There was just too much about meeting her that felt almost… _god_ , just _inevitable_ sometimes for it not to work out. 

Even when she tried to push Lexa away before, it never really solidified for her. Clarke couldn’t hold onto the idea; something in her simply wouldn’t allow it. So of course it’s been scrambling her perceptions. Of course she’s been misreading Lexa’s signals. Of course she’s been plunging full-steam into all the feelings, and dismissing the hard, _real-and-here_ facts behind any of this.

She’s been her worst problem all along.

And, as it would seem…she’s been Lexa’s, too. 

There’s a moment where Clarke just stands there, letting it all soak into her. 

And when it’s over, she’s just fucking _mad._

At herself, mostly. 

But the longer she sifts through it — the whole, cluttered up, lousy situation, and all those ugly, cold realities she’s been killing herself trying to overcome — the more upset she gets. If not for _those,_ they could maybe have an actual shot at this…this… _thing_ between them. This incredible, beautiful, terrifying thing Clarke never thought could possibly happen to her. But she’s just positively furious about everything else: the time crunch she’s under, the dozens of _‘No’_ emails cluttering up her inbox, and right now — even at Lexa for telling her she can’t pursue this anymore, because…

“No.”

Lexa’s brow wrinkles, and she tilts her head. That’s obviously not the answer she was anticipating. “No?”

“I don’t understand it,” Clarke says, shaking her head slowly. And then it all just comes rushing forward, and she’s completely powerless to shut it off. It’s like she’s stepped outside of herself, and some other force has taken over. “I don’t understand how somehow…” She waves her hands at Lexa in frustration. “… _this_ is the better choice, and to hell with looking for anything else. And god…clearly, I can’t make you understand that, either.” 

She halts long enough to draw in an uneven breath, catching that heavy soreness in her throat that means she’s on the verge of a really, really hard cry, and she is _not_ doing that here. “So…if this is what you want, then fine…” 

Clarke turns, the need to be out of this room _right now_ hurrying her steps toward the door, and suddenly this is all so nightmarishly familiar — this wild, half-crazed, hysterical feeling that’s clawing its way through her at this moment, and she just _needs to get out…_

“If you don’t want me to help, then, also…yeah, fine.” When she reaches the doorway, she pauses, and all the jittery, panicked thoughts start slamming in, too. _What the fuck am I saying? What the fuck am I doing?_

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, stuffing it down. She’s falling. She’s stepped off that fucking skyscraper ledge and now she’s just _falling_ so fast…

“Consider it done.” 

Then she just walks out.

And this time, Lexa doesn’t try to stop her.

*********************** 

Clarke was wrong before. She’s never felt more stupid than she does at _this_ moment.

_And awful. Can’t forget that. Stupid…and so, so fucking awful._

_What have I done? I just blew up at her like some kind of maniac and…_

“Alll-right…” Niylah sing-songs happily, breezing up to Clarke’s side with an armload of fabric. “Just two more pieces, and then you’re all set, okay?”

Clarke gives her the closest version of a smile she can muster and nods.

She’d nearly forgotten about her costume fitting. Thankfully, she had already been dismissed from rehearsal before she ever made the trek down to Lexa’s office, so at least she didn’t have to go back and try to actually _work_ after everything that went down earlier. _(Or see Lexa again, because, well…oh, god…)_

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…” Niylah mutters, holding up a swatch of fabric next to Clarke. She catches Clarke’s gaze and flashes a wide, easy grin, her eyes sparkling. “That color’s going to look so gorgeous on you.” She heads back over to her work table, sorting through the costumes Clarke’s already tried on. “I want to add a little something else to your banquet costume, give it some more, you know…” She spreads her hands out in front of her and wiggles her fingers. _“Ooof.”_

But, somehow? This is almost _worse._

Clarke tracks Niylah’s movements around the room sluggishly. 

The costumer has been an exceptionally good sport about Clarke’s reticent behavior; she hasn’t commented on it once so far, despite the oddity of Clarke’s lackluster performance in the conversation department tonight. Niylah’s just plowed on in her usual carefree, optimistic way. But every once and a while, Clarke’s caught her looking just a bit too closely at her, or spotted the shadow of a small, contemplative frown she’s not quick enough to hide. 

And Clarke’s not trying to be rude _(picked a helluva time to start caring about that now, considering the wreckage you’ve left behind you today, Griffin…)_ , but it’s just that…god, she can’t stop replaying all of the horrible things she said to Lexa, and she can’t see anything other than her stunned, upset face as Clarke walked away from her and… _fuck, what have I done?_

_I think I may have well and truly lost my mind. I think it’s finally happened._

_Maybe now we can test O’s theory about crazy people’s art fetching a higher selling price. ‘Cause after this? Christ knows no one will ever hire me for an acting gig again…_

“Okay,” Niylah says, approaching her again. “So this is the shirt you’ll be wearing most of Act II. I’ve got a more distressed version of it for the later scenes…you know, shows the wear and tear of you being in lock up and all, you rebel.” 

She breaks out one of those pretty, sunlit grins again, and when Clarke’s response barely lands above _‘lukewarm’_ on the scale of _appropriate-displays-of-human-emotion-when-you’re-not-trying-to-offend-someone,_ Niylah takes a step back and purses her lips, observing Clarke. 

“Alright, I can’t stand it anymore.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows.

Niylah holds out her hands, palms up, and makes a _‘bring it on’_ gesture at her. “Out with it. What’s got your heart so heavy tonight?”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke sighs, glancing down at the floor. _How many times have you said that just today, asshole? Hmm?_ “I didn’t mean to be —“

“Ah-ah-ah…” Niylah tuts at her. “I didn’t ask you to apologize. You’re sad, and you’re completely allowed to be sad. It’s perfectly okay that you’re sad. But you also look like you could really use some help right now, and if I can offer some, I’d like to.”

She’d had her bout of coarse, rage-y, _‘seriously, what’s wrong with me?’_ crying earlier, and as she suspected — it wasn’t pretty. _(She managed to duck into a some kind of storage room filled with decrepit, mismatched office furniture and — randomly — an oversized pink teddy bear before the worst of it hit. The teddy bear didn’t seem to judge her too harshly for the intrusion, though. Nor the sounds she was making at that point.)_ But she hasn’t really completely leveled out yet, so she’s still feeling a little weepy, and Niylah’s warm, gentle kindness is threatening to send her into another round of waterworks. 

She manages to get a handle on it, then looks back up at Niylah, giving her the most genuine smile she’s been able to summon since her arrival at the costumer’s door. _She really is a wonderful person…_

“Thank you, but…I’ll be okay, really,” Clarke replies. “Things are just…” She fades out, because it hits her that she honestly just doesn’t know, anymore. Things are just…

_Fucked. That’s the word you’re looking for, Clarke. Things are just fucked, and it’s all your fault._

She shakes out of that and raises up. “Thank you, though.”

Niylah nods and begins to turn away, then lifts up a hand and says: “Just so you know — it’s a standing offer, if you ever need it.” She winks at Clarke before she gathers up the costume shirt again, holding it out to her.

When their eyes meet, something occurs to Clarke. “Listen, um…” She clears her throat. “I never really gave you answer about opening night, and —“

“Oh, you did,” Niylah interjects, waving Clarke off. 

“I did…what?”

Niylah giggles and worries at a thread along one of the shirt sleeves. “You totally gave me an answer.” She catches Clarke’s eye again, her grin widening. “Anyone who sees the way you look at Lexa should know — you and I were never going to happen.”

Clarke inhales sharply and glances up at the ceiling, her cheeks burning. And there it is again, in her head. _Lexa’s sad, beautiful face, watching Clarke walk away…_

Niylah lays her hand over Clarke’s, drawing her eyes back down. “Don’t do that, though,” she says softly. “It’s nothing to run from.” She pushes the shirt toward Clarke and makes a sweeping motion toward the screen she’s set up as a changing area.

“What’s nothing to run from?” Clarke asks, dutifully shuffling over to the changing area. Her words feel gummy as they leave her mouth. It registers that she can’t remember the last time she ate today, which means she’s probably well past the point of needing to refuel, on top of everything else. 

“Love.” 

Clarke’s so grateful she’s already behind the screen when Niylah finally answers her, because what she’s just said freezes her on the spot. After a moment, she swallows and begins undressing, trying not to feel the ache in her chest. She can’t manage anything more of a reply than: “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Niylah says, turning the word into a sigh. “Love is…well, it’s just the most incredible thing, isn’t it? I’m absolutely one of those _‘I’m in love with love’_ types of people. You’ve probably noticed.” 

Behind the screen, Clarke’s mouth lifts in a tiny smirk. She slips the costume shirt over her head.

“It’s so…just the thrill of it, the magic of it — all those little fireworks it sets off inside you, especially when it’s new, because… _augh._ That’s _so good._ Sometimes I think I’m just in love with the idea of it, you know? It’s so powerful. The great motivator. The great mediator…”

“The great tormentor,” Clarke tosses over in a glum, flat voice, unable to help herself.

That gets a laugh from Niylah. “Sometimes. But, I mean, it’s what inspires every poem, every song, every story — even the tragedies. _Especially_ the tragedies. But take practically anything down to its roots, and right there, at the center of it all…every bit of it is about love. So, by the gods, if it’s held out to you, you don’t run from it.”

Clarke’s hands pause over the laces along the back of her costume that she’s been struggling to cinch together. She stares at the floor, unmoving, and every image flowing through her mind is just Lexa. _Lexa with her head thrown back, laughing. Lexa walking beside her, listening as she talks. Lexa pacing at the edge of the stage, following along with her scenes. Lexa pulling her closer, kissing her with everything she had to give…_

And then…Lexa’s eyes tonight, as Clarke shut the door. 

_"In my own way, and as much as I can, I’m trying to let go."_

The question is out of Clarke’s mouth before she can stop it. “But what if…what should you do if that decision is taken away from you?”

There’s a pause, and then Niylah says: “Then you try and fight for it, anyway.”

To keep the tears away this time, Clarke has to bite down on her cheek so hard she tastes metal.

When her silence goes on too long, she hears Niylah ask: “Are you okay, Clarke?”

_No. And I don’t know if I ever will be._

After a moment, Clarke pulls in a breath and raises up, glancing down at the laces still clutched in her hands. “Yeah, um…I’m…” She steps out from behind the screen, nodding down at the shirt, which still hangs open along the side. Niylah immediately sees the issue and moves toward Clarke to help, reaching for the laces. “I seem to be having a little trouble with —“

“How did everything go tonight, Niy —“

As Lexa’s head appears around the door, Niylah and Clarke both pull an about face toward her, wide-eyed.

“— lah-oh god! I’m sorry,” Lexa finishes, her head disappearing just as quickly.

A beat. 

“Sorry,” she says again from the hallway. “I thought you were done with fittings for the evening.” 

Clarke can only imagine that whatever shade of blush Lexa’s sporting right now — it must be nearly _fluorescent_ at this point. 

She blinks at Niylah, then just sighs and rolls her eyes. _Yup. This seems about right._

_I can’t do this yet. Not now._

_And definitely not while I’m standing here with my shirt half open, because…I mean…timing._

Niylah’s still staring at Clarke when she answers Lexa. “Things got pushed back a bit. I was running behind.” She points to the hallway and raises her eyebrows as if to ask Clarke if she’s alright with Lexa being here.

Clarke emphatically shakes her head _‘No’._

Still nothing but crickets from the hallway.

“Did you need something, Lexa?” Niylah prompts, and when she glances at Clarke’s expression again, she smirks, her eyes dancing. She’s enjoying this, damn her. 

Clarke frowns and scrunches up her nose at Niylah. _Stop it._

“Uh…I just wanted to…I wanted to go over, the, um…”

When Lexa just trails off, Niylah squints and cocks her head to the side, shooting a quizzical look at Clarke.

Clarke motions to the laces, like: _‘Can you…?’_

Niylah grimaces in apology and starts cinching the laces together as fast as she can.

“I just wanted to…” Lexa continues. “…check in and make sure we were on schedule with the…” 

_Aaand,_ she’s out of gas again.

“Costumes?” Niylah finally supplies.

A pause.

“Yes.”

Clarke waves her hand at the shirt. _Are we good?_

Niylah gives her a quick once over and nods, shooing her back to the changing area. This is obviously not going to continue properly until Lexa’s cleared out of here, so they might as well give up and quit trying for now.

Clarke ducks back behind the screen.

“You can come in now,” Niylah calls out, and Clarke can tell she’s working hard not to laugh.

The door creaks open. 

Clarke can only catch a sliver of Lexa’s profile from her vantage point. 

_Good god,_ her heart is pounding so hard. She concentrates on slowing down her breathing. _Just focus on that, Clarke. Breathe…_

“I can come back later, if you need me to,” Lexa says softly.

_Yes. Please and thank you, yes…_

“No, no, it’s good,” Niylah counters, and Clarke immediately drops her face into her outstretched hands. _Why?!_

Niylah grabs her notebook from a nearby table, flicking an amused glance at Clarke as she crosses by. “This will only take a second.” 

Clarke sees Lexa turn toward the changing area, then hurriedly cut her eyes back to Niylah. 

And now she’s no longer breathing. 

She shakes her head and tries again. _Breathe…_

“Everything’s looking pretty good, except we’re going to need to make some adjustments with Lincoln’s costume for the sparring scene,” Niylah continues, pointing to a page in her notebook. “He’s having some trouble moving in this, so…”

“Yeah, okay. That’s not a problem at all,” Lexa mutters, skimming over Niylah’s notes.

Clarke hears Niylah toss the notebook back on the table, and then suddenly she’s right behind her at the changing area. 

When Clarke flips around and blasts her with a startled, _‘what the hell are you doing?’_ look, Niylah just smiles and gives another wink, then pushes Clarke until she’s facing forward again and reaches for the laces of her shirt, untying them as she talks to Lexa.

Clarke realizes a couple of things at just about the same time.

The first is that — at this moment — there’s literally less than a foot of space separating her from Lexa, and Niylah is _actively and cheerfully undressing her right now._ Throughout the deeply diverse, sordid plethora of awkward situations in which Clarke’s been entangled before — this one has to be at least a solid top 5. 

And the second is that, from where Lexa’s standing — even though Clarke may be carefully shielded from Lexa’s view — Lexa can, without a doubt, see that Niylah is _actively and cheerfully undressing her right now._

And judging from the tiny glimpse of her face Clarke’s able to spy through the screen? 

Lexa is _not_ taking either of those things very well. 

“Oh, there’s this, too,” Niylah cruises on, her voice utterly casual. “Clarke’s going to need some help getting in and out of this during Act II, so I’ll need to be able to hook up with her a few times during the show.”

There’s a pause. Clarke should say something here. Acknowledge her. Something. She may be insane _(she’s definitely insane_ ), but she was the one who fucked up. _God, did I ever…_

Which means she should be the first to _say something, already…_

But she’s just paralyzed.

Then the moment’s over, and it’s too late. “Hook up with…” Lexa repeats. 

And… _huh. Now that I know what angry Lexa sounds like, it’s easier to pick out._

“You know, get her over stage right so I can help her with the quick change?” 

Lexa clears her throat. “Right.” Her tone _almost_ sounds normal again when she says: “We’ll figure it out.”

It gets quiet. Lexa’s just watching Niylah work on the laces, transfixed. And _fuming._ Silently, steadily _fuming._

“I don’t have anything else,” Niylah finally says.

There’s another moment’s pause, and then Lexa spins on her heel and heads for the door. “Good. Okay, um…good. See you…” She walks out so quickly, she forgets to close it behind her.

Clarke twists around to cast a horrified look over her shoulder at Niylah. “Why would you do that?!”

Niylah just grins. “One more thing I’ve learned about love, Clarke. When it’s real, and something’s standing in its way?”

She finishes untangling the last of the laces, then pokes Clarke in the chest, right above her heart. “You should do whatever you can to help it along.” 

*********************** 

Before she leaves the theater, Clarke goes back to Lexa’s office.

It won’t mend the damage. She knows that. But she at least wants to apologize. 

When Clarke gets there, though — Lexa’s already gone.

After that, she just started walking.

O is at Lincoln’s place, and she could have headed there, but…Clarke was neither ready to tackle the inevitable conversation she’ll need to have with both of them about what happened, _(and what it means for their not-so-stealth-anymore fundraising campaign)_ , nor was she looking forward to a long evening of being stuck alone in her loft, cataloguing all the many reasons she hates herself right now.

So, instead…she walked. She’s been wandering around the city for the last couple of hours, traipsing sore and aimless from street to street, trying to sort through the rubble of this day. Doesn’t really matter, though. She could have roamed out there all night, and she’d still wind up in the same place. 

Because, in the end, it all just leads back to this:

She screwed up. 

She screwed up _so much._

By the time she reaches her front steps, Clarke’s tumbled so far down into that one relentless thought that — at first — she doesn’t even see her sitting there.

But then she halts. Looks again.

She’s sitting at the top of the steps, all tucked in and drawn down and shivering, and when she feels Clarke’s eyes on her…Lexa slowly lifts her head. 

And it’s the way she immediately shores up: the broadening of shoulders, the determined set of her mouth, the multitude of _pulse-beat-quick_ adjustments Lexa always makes when she’s preparing to throw herself in front of something that will hurt — _that’s_ what breaks Clarke’s heart all over again.

Because it’s not enough that she’s here. It’s not enough that she’s _been here_ , for a while, and now she’s cold, and miserable, and just too damn beautifully _stubborn_ to leave. 

It’s not enough she’s looking at Clarke like that, all soft and sad.

But the way Lexa’s bracing herself right now can only mean one thing, and it _kills_ Clarke to see it.

She somehow thinks this is her fault.

Before Lexa can even get the words out, Clarke takes a step forward, holding up her hand. “Don’t.”

There’s a catch of breath, something wounded flickering in her eyes. That’s all Lexa will allow through. 

“Don’t _apologize,_ ” Clarke hurries to add. She walks closer, keeping her eyes on Lexa the whole way. “You don’t owe me that. _I_ was wrong today, okay? I was so wrong.” She pauses, then just admits the rest. “I’ve been wrong for a long time. And I’m so, so sorry.”

Lexa still tries to tug the blame away from Clarke almost immediately. “No, I shouldn’t have —“

“Please…” Clarke cuts in. “Just let me get this out first? I really need to say this before you do that, okay? Please?”

Lexa goes quiet. Then she nods.

Clarke tries to figure out where to begin. “You don’t need to apologize, because god, Lexa, you’ve been _telling me._ You’ve been telling me, and I just refused to hear it. When you said you were leaving, I should have just…” She stops. _Don’t go back, go forward. It’s too late for ‘should have’s’ now, Clarke._

She sweeps that aside, folding her arms across her belly. The wind has picked up; it’s gotten so much colder than when she set first stepped out of the theater. A chill rolls along her back, sends goosebumps skittering across her skin. _I can’t believe she stayed out here this long._

She glances up, noticing how Lexa is still hunched over, hugging her knees, and something in her heart splits open just that much wider. 

_Actually, scratch that. Yes, I can. Holy hell, she must be freezing._ It propels her forward — she wants Lexa to go get warm somewhere, and she won’t budge until Clarke finishes this. 

“I thought I could fix this,” Clarke says quietly. “I wanted to at least try, because…” And it doesn’t make any sense for her to be nervous about this now, really. Not here. Not at the end of all the missteps and misconceptions and the reckless, awful, flat-out _mistakes_ she’s made with Lexa. Why should the truth be any scarier than that? 

She looks at Lexa, and despite the tears sneaking into her eyes, a crooked grin edges across Clarke’s face. “It’s just…I’ve never had anyone like you to lose.” Once she’s said it, Clarke just stands there, lets the words replay in her head, lets herself feel them for a moment. She meets Lexa’s gaze again and shrugs helplessly. “So, yeah. Of course I wanted to try.”

And that finally gets a reaction. Lexa’s whole body relaxes. It’s minute: just a slight give in her shoulders, her fingers flexing against her knees. A pinprick puncture in the facade, as if Lexa’s just permitted something to cross in, or out. Clarke’s not sure which.

Lexa closes her eyes. 

But when she returns to her again, Clarke has to look away. If she lingers there, stays too long, the real crying will start, and she’s done enough of that today. She stares down at the steps, instead.

She’s finally arrived at the point where she initially intended to go with all of this, the thing she really wanted to say to Lexa. Because, despite Niylah’s misguided _(but sweet, kind of)_ attempt earlier — _this_ is what she actually needs to face. “But I don’t want to fight you, either,” Clarke says, her tone hardening a little. “I don’t want that to be how we finish things.” She pushes past that quickly, pretending she can’t hear it. 

“Because there’s already so much out here, you know? It’s already so hard sometimes to just wake up and deal with all of _this_ …” She motions to the sidewalk. “…waiting out here to knock us down, and I can’t handle it if you and I are on opposite sides, too. I don’t want you to leave like that.”

She switches her gaze down the block, taking in the crosswalks, the car horns, the shape and symmetry of every doorway drama playing out across this city tonight. How, everywhere she looks, someone is clashing with some kind of fortune, good or ill. Someone is leaving, or being left. Someone is crying, screaming, being silly or wrong, or giggling so hard they choke. Someone is falling down, or falling over themselves with want. 

And maybe right now, at this very second…someone else has reached the furthest stretch of dying or living or just plain giving up. 

It’s not just her. No matter how alone Clarke may feel right now, it’s not just her. 

She keeps her eyes cast down the street. “I can’t fight all this, and fight you, too, Lexa. I just can’t.” Her voice sounds so small. 

After a moment, she hears Lexa moving. It pulls her back.

Lexa’s standing up now, watching her from the top of the steps. There’s no trace of that steel left in her eyes; the reinforcement effort has been abandoned, too. She’s drawn up from wherever she’s been sheltering herself, held everything out for Clarke to see. And it’s all just fond and gentle and open and so devastatingly lovely…

And Clarke’s smiling at her. She can’t hold it back. It’s not much of a smile — hardly anything, really — steeped in all the sad thoughts, the goodbye thoughts, she’s having right now. But she wants Lexa to have it, anyway.

As Lexa starts walking down the steps, Clarke’s readying herself for what she’s going to say. Because even if they still have some time left together, she knows things are changing tonight. It may not be goodbye, not yet…but it’s an ending, all the same. 

So she’s waiting for it, barricading herself for it. Though Lexa may have just stepped out from hiding, Clarke’s not strong enough for that yet. She needs bricks and iron for this. She needs something tall and sturdy around her heart, or she won’t make it through.

But she’s so not ready for what actually happens next.

Because Lexa walks toward her, and without stopping, or taking her eyes off Clarke, Lexa just… _kisses_ her. Just slides her arms around Clarke, and kisses her.

Clarke only has this stutter — this _millisecond_ of cognition as Lexa strides up to her, and closes in —to grasp what’s going on, too. She hears herself say _‘ohmygod’_ into Lexa’s mouth, and then it’s nothing but Lexa’s slow, impossibly-soft lips against hers, and her hands clutching Clarke’s hips, and that low, little _‘mmmpff’_ noise Lexa makes when Clarke kisses her back: the sheer _relief_ in it, as if something in Lexa needed repair, or curing, and Clarke somehow just managed to make it all better. 

And it feels… _so, so good._

It’s not anything like their first kiss. It’s not frenzied — pulsed as if they might be torn from each other at a moment’s notice. It’s not that collision-jolt feeling that burned supernova hot and threatened to evaporate them both. 

No, it’s a lazy heat this time — a delirious, euphoric, _three-shots-deep drunk_ kind of heat — and it _spreads_ and _spreads_ and _spreads_ through Clarke, dizzies her up, turns everything in her head to white noise.

When they finally come up for air, Lexa leans her forehead against Clarke’s, just like before. And just like before, it has Clarke grinning and giddy because… _ugh._ She already wants to kiss her again. She never wants to stop kissing her.

It takes a minute, but Clarke’s eventually able to find her voice. “What are you…?” she breathes.

Lexa opens her eyes. Then she smiles this gorgeous, full-blown smile that absolutely lights Clarke _up_ , her grip tightening around Lexa’s shoulders at the sight of it.

“I can’t fight me anymore, either,” Lexa says softly. And then she kisses Clarke again.

(She really needs to stop doing that for a second, too, because Clarke has _so many questions_ , and Lexa’s just caused her to forget every last one of them.)

When they part this time, Clarke manages to say: “But…”

“We said we’d take things day by day, right? I want to actually _do_ that. Let’s be here today. Stop trying to figure everything out before it happens, and just _be here_ today.”

Like it’s just that easy. 

Clarke stares at her. 

She should be surprised. She should be, but she’s not. Because this is Lexa, through and through, just as much as the Lexa who told her she was trying to let her go. 

This is the Lexa who _believes._

And right now, she’s doing exactly what she does best: distilling a problem down to its solvable parts, trying to make Clarke understand.

“Because I can’t…” Lexa continues. “Clarke, I don’t think I can stop this. I know I don’t want to. I’m _trying_ , but it’s just…and you’re just…”

She watches Lexa struggle through it, this woman who can create entire cities, craft characters so vibrant and complex Clarke can almost feel them _breathe_ , but when she’s out here on her own, speaking just as herself — every syllable feels precious and astonishing. Especially when she’s saying _this._ Something Clarke didn’t think she’d actually get to have. Something she thought she’d just put down for good.

_Could it just be that easy?_

“But what about tomorrow?” Clarke asks, because it’s exactly what _she_ does best.

Lexa smiles at her like she already knew that question was coming. “I guess we just see what happens. Figure it out tomorrow.”

Then she waits. Just looks at Clarke, and _waits._

And for the second time tonight, Clarke finds herself stepping right off a ledge.

She kisses Lexa all the way back up the steps. 

Kisses her against the door of her loft until she’s fumbling so badly she can hardly get it unlocked, every fire spark frequency inside her switched on and _humming._

Pulls Lexa inside with her…and just _falls, and falls…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. It may have taken them 119K+ words to get there, but it's FINALLY happening, ya'll. 
> 
> And no, that wasn’t it. Promise. 😜


	12. Don't Forget About Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Geez. Now with the actual ending included.** (Sorry, everybody. Laptop is being a bit fussy today.) Take two!
> 
> Hey, everyone! My goodness, am I glad to be back here. Life got busy, and -- let me tell you -- this one took its sweet time to appear. So I appreciate your patience while I tried to get it all down and did my best to get it as right as I possibly could. 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for being here, and for all the love and amazing comments you've sent my way and continue to send my way. It makes me so seriously happy to hear from you, and I'm so grateful when you take the time to let me know you're out there. You're all pretty incredible, do you know that? Because you are.
> 
> I want to send a huge and heartfelt thank you to DreamsAreMyWords for the squee-read and for all of your encouragement and kindness. You're a first-rate human being, and if everyone took a cue from your playbook...well. The world would be a much better place, that's for sure. (And probably loaded up with a heckuva lot more Clexa sin, too.) :)
> 
> For all of you hardened travelers of the Clexa-sphere who have seen it all, read it all, (and -- for some of you -- written it all)...it’s my first time, so...nerves. :) These two have a lot of feelings, and they’re kind of sappy and have some stuff to work through. We’re going some places. But hopefully you'll like the trip.
> 
> I hope life is treating all of you like the lovely wonders you are. Take care of yourselves and each other, and I hope to see you again in the next one. 
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of CLOVES.

************************* 

Three days before Clarke moved east, the Santa Ana’s swept across Los Angeles, shriveling anything left in bloom still trying to survive amidst the drought soil hillsides and fields of Southern California. Wildfires erupted almost immediately — vast, gluttonous infernos that chewed through acres of oil-fat incense cedars and whiskery scrub grass, and licked flames up all the towering sugar pine trees growing in crooked clumps along the mountains just beyond L.A.’s borders. 

By the time Clarke and Octavia were due to depart, Los Angeles had been placed under emergency alert, every local TV station broadcasting an endless image stream of entire forests ground down to smoking heaps of silty, black powder, spacious mountain estates reduced to kindling. Eventually, the desert winds drove all that swollen Hell right up to the gates of the city and demanded to be let _in_ , sent every resident in its path screaming to get out of the way. 

As the fires stretched and spread toward them, Clarke stood on the balcony of her mostly-emptied apartment, her last remaining treasured belongings slung haphazardly into boxes, and watched the whole doomsday spectacle roll down, ash in her hair. She couldn’t imagine her exit from California would be quite this dramatic, nor underscored by the jittery, sustained hum of a population under siege: Siren wails, gas station parking lot squabbles, squealing tires. Couples yelling at each other over what was precious enough to pack in the car or abandon. O in the background, pacing the floors of Clarke’s echoey apartment while she monitored highway shutdowns and evacuation routes, making quick-footed map check revisions to ensure they could still get out of town. _(She wasn’t going to let some pesky apocalypse event thwart their escape from L.A, after all. No way.)_

Clarke had never seen anything like it, what burned on the edge of the city that night. It was like a creature from a storybook; an enormous, hypnotizing, living _thing_ that billowed and growled its way down the mountainside, intent on swallowing them up. The news channels gave it a name: _Conflagration._

And as she stood out there on that balcony, with the moon sawing through all the smoke and havoc, rising up red-gold and singed — Clarke remembers thinking: _Well, this is fitting, isn’t it? Of course this would be how you’d leave Hollywood behind._

 _Dodging a firestorm, in every literal and figurative sense._

So when Clarke stumbles inside her loft, she has a moment, a _flash_ — just the slightest, faintest whisper — of her last night in L.A., of all that might and catastrophe in her rearview mirror. _Conflagration._

The firestorm she had to outrun to get here.

Because as Lexa presses her flush against the door, and kisses the breath out of her all over again…

Clarke realizes she’s just run _right_ back into one.

She grips Lexa’s waist and holds on tight, certain that if she were to let go right now, her legs might actually crumple, given how Lexa is kissing her. _Fuck…_

She knew it would be like this. Had felt it before, that fever-pitch undertow within Lexa, knew what it could do to her. Only now there’s barely an ounce of restraint left; they’d shed most of that on the way here, colliding together up the stairs, in the hallway, against the wall — Lexa’s hands clutching the small of Clarke’s back, blood-warm and fierce, Lexa’s lips unravelling her a little more each time. 

Because even when it’s slow or soft, Lexa kisses _hungrily._ Like she’s seizing something inside Clarke, drawing it out of her, spiraling her out and out and out until she hits atmosphere. In her whole life, she has never been kissed that way. Lifted out of herself like that, her every last cell charged with this mad, rushing heat that is _so_ delicious, and _so_ intense, and _so fucking overwhelming…_

Clarke breaks off with a gasp, her hands bunching into fists in the hem of Lexa’s shirt. “ _Holy shit_ , you’re good at that,” she pants, resting her forehead against Lexa’s shoulder. She squeezes her eyes shut and just tries to _breathe_ for a second. 

Lexa’s fingers tighten around Clarke’s hips. She gives a quiet, shuddery laugh, the vibration of it drumming through Clarke, still slumped against her for support. _(At this rate, Clarke’s not sure if it will ever be safe to completely let go. Everything in her periphery is still whirling.)_

Clarke loosens her grasp on the shirt clutched in her hands, then slings her arms around Lexa’s middle, hugging her a little closer. She’s honestly kind of grateful for her persistent dizziness right now, because it’s just all the more impetus to keep holding onto Lexa. 

_(And she’s beginning to think she might already be addicted to that.)_

Clarke tilts her head to the side to peek up at Lexa. 

She’s breathing just as heavily, looking delectably worked up and ruffled: cheeks tinged pink, hair all tousled, wayward strands of it fanning down across her face — and when she catches Clarke peeking at her, Lexa squints back, the corners of her mouth curling up into this wide, brilliant, amazing grin.

 _God. She is just. So. Gorgeous._

And then Clarke is grinning, too. She can’t help it. 

“Me?” Lexa protests, challenging Clarke’s claim. Her eyes are dark and hooded and positively _glued_ to Clarke’s mouth. 

It takes Clarke a couple of disrupted heartbeats to recall what they’re arguing about. “Yeah, _you_ ,” she finally volleys back, staring at Lexa’s lips just as hard. 

Lexa keeps tracing her thumbs back and forth over the ridge of Clarke’s hip bones, and the effect of _that_ , plus _lips_ , times _oh, those eyes_ is making Clarke’s stomach swoop _so much_ , sending a blast of chills all over her. 

Lexa pulls in a breath in a way that makes it seem like it’s taking some actual, deliberate effort for her to refill her lungs right now, her grin vanishing as her gaze flickers up to Clarke’s. She’s quiet for another moment, then says: “I can’t stop shaking.” 

And it’s _how_ she says it, too — delivering it like a confession, all sweet-voiced and soft and just the tiniest bit helpless. Looking at Clarke like she’s the most astonishing thing Lexa’s ever seen. 

It completely _wrecks_ Clarke. She just stares at Lexa, unable to form words, and feels an ache split through her chest, stretching out full and warm behind her ribcage. 

_Ugh. How is she even possible?_

Off her silence, Lexa arches an eyebrow and lifts up one of her hands to show Clarke how it’s trembling, like: _“See?”_

 _Seriously. How can one person be all of this?_

Clarke is already reaching for her again.

They crash together, Lexa surging forward as soon as Clarke begins to close the gap, her hand slipping up Clarke’s spine to cradle the back of her neck, scattering tingles through Clarke that shimmer in only one decidedly clear direction: _south._ Her hands twitch against Lexa’s stomach and Lexa _shudders_ , mouth parting in a hiss of breath, then leans in even harder, trapping Clarke’s lower lip between hers and biting down with just the right amount of pressure to draw a surprised, but _god, totally encouraging_ hum out of Clarke. 

By the time Lexa slows them down again, Clarke is feeling outright feverish. 

It seems like Lexa might be in about the same shape. She separates just long enough to rest their foreheads together while she tries to steady herself, nuzzling her nose softly against Clarke’s, the rise and fall of her chest noticeably shorter now, and far more uneven. It takes a moment for her eyelids to flutter open all the way.

Lexa grazes the back of her hand down Clarke’s cheek, following the movement with her eyes. 

Clarke watches her, caught in a strange, syrupy trance, her synapses purring with the heavy fullness of Lexa’s mouth, those long, dark eyelashes, how — standing this close to each other — Lexa’s pupils seem virtually _endless._

The thing that really has Clarke stumbling over herself, though, is the expression on Lexa’s face right now. (It’s almost approaching genuine _wonder_.) 

Lexa draws up slightly. And when her eyes flit back to Clarke’s, they’re misted over with something as bliss-drunk and dazed as Clarke feels at this moment, which makes her flounder even more. 

“You’re _so_ beautiful.”

Even coming from Lexa, (and — to be honest — _especially_ since it’s coming from Lexa), that word triggers a familiar reaction for her. That reflexive, self-conscious twinge of: _she can’t possibly be talking about me._

Clarke has had enough people comment on her appearance or toss compliments at her in the past that she can at least admit she’s _attractive._ But she doesn’t feel _beautiful._ It won’t settle on her; she hears _beautiful_ and her first instinct is to shrug it off, get out from underneath it. Beautiful belongs on people with better choices in their history, less shadows under their skin. People brave enough to turn their true faces to the world, and allow others to actually take a good, hard look at them. Not hide in partial versions of themselves to avoid attracting too much attention. 

She doesn’t think anyone’s ever seen her that clearly. Not her parents, her friends — definitely not the people she’s been in relationships with before. Maybe not even O. She’s never felt like anyone has ever gotten all of her, the full spectrum of her. She’s always held something back, hidden parts of herself too fragile or real to be let out into the open. Or compromised herself to better fit someone else’s blueprint of what they thought she should be. _Play the role. Don’t make trouble. It’s not worth the effort._

How can she be beautiful, when no one really knows what she looks like up close? 

Clarke glances away from Lexa, her gaze settling on the floor.

But Lexa won’t let her sneak off that easily. 

She places her hands on either side of Clarke’s face and kisses her, Lexa’s fingertips weaving into the fine, wispy curls at the nape of her neck. Her kiss feels soft as surf breaking against Clarke’s lips, but the meaning behind it is ferocious, booming — whole oceans opening up in what Lexa is putting into that kiss. What she’s trying to get Clarke to understand.

That maybe her eyes are sharper than the rest. 

Clarke’s mouth wavers against Lexa’s; there are words burning in the back of her throat — skeptical words, denial words — but Lexa is still holding her so delicately, so _truthfully_ , and when Clarke tucks down her chin to take an overcome breath Lexa just smiles. Tells her she’s beautiful again. Kisses her again.

Repeats herself between those gentle ocean kisses until it holds, and Clarke finally gives in to Lexa’s willful sweetness, bringing her eyes back up.

And when they land on Lexa, the first thought that emerges for her is: 

_I can’t remember the last time someone looked that damn pleased to see me._

_God, this girl._

_She can take me from zero to an irrationally sappy mess like a fucking Bugatti._

Just like that, Clarke has to look away again. There’s too much unfolding inside of her. Too much she wants to say, but isn’t ready for, not when she hasn’t even had the chance to step back yet from this…combustible, chemical _thing_ they seem to set off in each other. This thing that’s so lathered up with dangerous emotion she can hardly process what she’s doing, much less how she’s feeling about any of it. She can’t latch onto any definition here, not with this kind of connection brimming between them. 

And that’s problem, really. None of this seems completely real yet. She still hasn’t fully traveled from where they were before, outside of these walls, in that _can’t have_ , _can’t touch_ , _not for you_ space she’s been living in for so long. Everything is too flurried up, too disordered; it's like they’ve circumvented the evolutionary chain of all this, gone directly to cave paintings and tools and weapons, when Clarke’s still hanging back somewhere along the timeline just trying to figure out how to walk upright.

So, no. She can’t trust what she wants to say. Not yet.

 _When in doubt, stick with the standards, I guess._

“So, there’s really no off switch for all that stubborn, huh?” Clarke asks, turning back with a forced smirk. She lifts her hand between them, making a vague, swirling motion over Lexa. “It’s just always going to be there. I’m always going to be running into it, no matter what.”

Lexa cinches her arms around Clarke a bit more snugly, easing back in, her lips skating against Clarke’s cheek in a smile. Then she gives her another one of those appraising, worshipful _looks._ “Only when I’m right, at least.”

_Well, hell._

_That backfired._

Clarke’s only safe response for that is to just shake her head and simply pull Lexa closer, falling into the shape and give of her lips, the skies-parting-miraculous _fee_ l of her in her arms — something that pierces through Clarke in a way she can’t even articulate, except for the certainty that she’ll never stop marveling over it, she’ll never get her fill, and she will _want this, always._

Because even though Clarke can’t quite believe she gets this, she knows she wants to hold onto it forever. Overcome with this crucial need to commit it all to memory, store it away and keep it safe, so no one can take it from her. 

So she tries to just give herself over to Lexa, shut out the immensity of what’s waiting for them beyond _right now, right here_ — capture everything about this moment, instead: that jagged inhalation before Lexa opens to her, the soft noises she makes when Clarke runs her tongue along the kiss-bruised swell of her lower lip. The way she shivers when Clarke nuzzles in, sweeps barely there kisses up the graceful arch of her neck. The frantic flutter-beat of Lexa’s pulse under her mouth, how it reverberates right into Clarke, wraps around every howling want inside of her and just _pulls_ , and _pulls_ , and _pulls…_

And sailing right up on top, unafraid, and laid out plainly — the way Lexa grasps at her, keeping them close. Trying to get closer. 

Not wanting to let go. 

Clarke holds each new discovery right up to her heart, finds that place that feels like it has always been Lexa’s, and sets them down as gently as she can, sealing everything with pledge word vows: _Guard. Protect. Shield._

And underneath that, a wish. Offered with the same solemn weight. _Mine._

Gradually, it begins to work. For every impossibility Lexa lets her have, Clarke starts surrendering something else. She can sense it leaving: all those fears, all those doubts, all those _less than’s_ and _not enough’s_ and _reasons_ she shouldn’t be standing here holding Lexa like this simply cleaving apart and scattering, piece by piece. Making room for just _this._ Just _us._ Just _her._

With so much giving way…it _should_ seem like Clarke’s losing herself. But it’s not like that at all. Somehow, it’s the opposite.

But Clarke doesn’t get any further with that, because in the next moment, Lexa’s hands around her hips turn _insistent_ , and Lexa’s warm, warm mouth is on her neck, and she feels the, _fuck_ , faint scrape of teeth against her collarbone, and _seriously_ —

“Fuck,” Clarke gasps, tipping her head back.

That prompts a quiet, low-slung laugh out of Lexa, hot against Clarke’s throat. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.”

Clarke leans away just enough to find Lexa’s eyes. “First of all, really? Because I don’t see how that could be even remotely true.”

Lexa smirks, ghosting her lips along Clarke’s jawline.

“And secondly…” Here she has to stop, releasing a broken exhale as Lexa sips her way over Clarke’s collarbone again in these featherlight swipes of tongue and teeth that are completely _ravaging_ Clarke’s ability to remember her second point. 

She sways into the feeling of Lexa’s mouth on her, letting it go on until she’s so swimmy and weak she almost falls over, then runs her hands across Lexa’s chest, winding her fingers into the collar of her shirt and _hauling_ her up, catching her gaze again. “I’m pretty sure it’s a safe bet that won’t be the last time you hear me say it, either.” She raises a loaded eyebrow. “I mean, Christ, Lexa…”

And with that, a look passes across Lexa’s face that seems a bit too _goals_ for Clarke to not immediately abandon her last hope of actually surviving this night.

Because good god, what all of this is doing to her. 

It’s been so long since she’s been here. So long since she’s even _missed_ this — the demand of someone pushed up against her, urging her to touch them, loving how she’s touching them. Or to have someone all beautifully disheveled reaching for her, who just wants to feel how they can make Clarke come apart beneath their hands. 

And when that someone is Lexa… 

_Well._

Clarke doesn’t have a shot of holding up under _this._

Everything about this has her aching already. It feels as if all of her nerve endings have been strung too sharply, lit like fuses. She’s never been more aware of her own skin or breath or the heart rattling around behind her ribcage than she does right now, with Lexa dragging her fingertips up Clarke’s sides, her lips across Clarke’s neck. There’s heat pounding low in her stomach and her hands won’t stop trembling and the slow grind feeling of Lexa’s body on hers is driving Clarke absolutely crazy — 

And they’re _just goddamn getting started._

As Lexa continues to ruin her, nibbling at Clarke’s earlobe (which causes Clarke to emit this husky little squeak that actually makes Lexa _giggle_ ), Clarke just slides her arms around Lexa and draws her in closer, reveling in the roaring feeling that’s flaring through her chest, her palms, her fingers, her thoughts: _oh god, this feels so good, and I want to hear her make that sound again and I want her to look at me like that again and I. Want. Her. So. Much…_

There’s a moment then, when it all _really_ hits her, gets to be too bright, too large, too ruinously _gorgeous_ for Clarke anymore. She pulls back to regain some control. 

Brushes her lips against Lexa’s, and just _looks_ at her. 

_Oh, no. I’ve never been in any danger of losing myself, here._

Lexa meets her eyes. Then she breaks into one of those devastating, laid-back-simmer smiles, the kind that starts off easy and then spreads, turns teasing, makes Lexa look like she’s figured out some of your secrets. The kind that’s been guest starring in Clarke’s daydreams since Lexa first walked into them. 

It causes something else inside of Clarke to splinter apart, and fly away. One more _can’t, not_ piece of her down, Lexa stepping into the space it left behind. And as she moves in to kiss Lexa again, Clarke laughs at herself a little, and thinks: _I’m already so fucking lost…_

But before she can get back to _god, that mouth_ — Lexa’s fingers slip under Clarke’s shirt, skimming over the soft skin of her belly. 

And just that, just _that_ …completely unbalances Clarke, tearing a quiet moan out of her throat. _So, so lost._

The noise causes Lexa to lift up, and trap her with eyes gone suddenly very serious, and very hazy. 

Clarke can see it, the instant Lexa’s last shred of restraint falls away. The way her breathing falters as she swallows and raises her chin, her fingertips searing over Clarke’s skin in these gentle, torturous, _growing-braver-by-the-second_ patterns, just _feeling_ her. 

She searches Clarke’s face, marking all her shivery reactions with this fixed, prowling attention, as if everything else in Lexa’s world just became so much less important than what’s happening to Clarke right now. It’s so fucking intense, Lexa looking at her like that. She’s never felt this watched, or this wanted before. _(And that includes the time her agent made her wear that stupid way-too-see-through boob shirt for the Skytide panel at Comic-Con.)_

No, this is…it’s well beyond hunger. Being caught in _this_ makes Clarke feel full-out _consumed._

The moment hangs between them, Clarke’s focus cutting down to only those wickedly habit-forming lips and that wild, live-wire burn building in Lexa’s gaze. She knows she needs to _do something_ , and fast, rally up and return fire, or else she just might very well pass out under the magnitude of what Lexa is aiming at her here. 

So she leans in closer, folding herself around Lexa, her fingers fanning out across Lexa’s shoulder blades, digging in. When their eyes connect, Clarke snares her bottom lip between her teeth and then rolls her hips _juuuust_ enough to feel the answering jolt it causes in Lexa. _Ahh…okay. Now THAT is definitely habit-forming, too. God._

Lexa pulls back a fraction, narrowing her eyes at Clarke, like: _‘Oh, that’s just MEAN…’_

In a fit of _‘welp, you’re in this now’_ confidence, Clarke simply smirks and gives her a look that says, in no uncertain terms: 

_Your turn._

The want in Lexa’s heavy stare pushes into something closer to _need._

It sends something reeling through Clarke that feels nearly _molten_ , speeds out along her bloodstream and down between her thighs and leaves her with her lips hovering over Lexa’s mouth, breath coming in short, shallow puffs now. 

And when her courage strikes back again, and Clarke presses her hips into Lexa a little harder…

Lexa slams her eyes shut, releasing this half-caught whimper that is pretty much _life-affirming._

Clarke watches her, waiting. 

She’s made the first moves, before. In nearly every step they’ve taken toward each other to get here, it’s been _Clarke_ driving them forward, _Clarke_ unbolting the locks they’d both placed on this thing. So after all this time of guessing and guessing wrong, chasing, crying, dying, soaring…

No, tonight is all Lexa’s. 

She’s brought them this far. Clarke can wait her out.

But because she is who she is, Lexa won’t go any further without _this_ first. She slowly raises her eyes to Clarke, and asks in a soft, shaky whisper:

“Are you sure?”

And this is it, the point where it all tips from _'chance of recovery'_ to _‘nothing left to recover’_ for Clarke. Because she knows whatever happens from this moment on has the potential to completely tear her apart. _No return._

There’s still so much about this that’s risky. 

_(Leaving. She’s leaving, Clarke.)_

There’s still so much about this that could go wrong.

_(She won’t let you help.)_

Lexa could destroy her. She almost did, once.

Clarke has tried to let her go so many times, in so many ways, but now?

She won’t be able to, after this. 

_(And she’s leaving.)_

She won’t just be lost. 

She’ll be _gone._

Still. 

_God, I’ve never been more fucking sure of anything before…_

Clarke can only manage a quick, frantic nod before she’s attacking Lexa’s mouth again.

And after that — everything just charges _up._

Their next kiss hits with the force of an incoming tide, nothing but tangling and motion and Lexa’s hands cupping her face, plunging into her hair, kissing her so deep and so greedily that Clarke feels like she’s spinning in place. When they part for a fast gasp-sip of air, Clarke starts backing Lexa up, herding them toward the bedroom. Not only because what Lexa is doing to her has taken Clarke’s legs from _wobbly_ to _nearly inoperable_ by this stage, _(and she’s honestly not sure how much longer she can stand up)_ , but because the need to have her hands on Lexa has pushed Clarke into a kind of coiled-up _frenzy._

She’s shaking with it, struck through with this scorching belly pit longing that keeps tightening and tightening with every slide of her lips against Lexa’s, the crush of their bodies, the _‘Oh, god’_ she lures out of Lexa when Clarke nips at that so, so soft spot below her jawline.

So without taking her mouth off Lexa, Clarke keeps maneuvering them backwards, and somewhere along the way she gets her jittery fingers to cooperate well enough to pry apart the buttons of Lexa’s shirt. (When it registers that she’s actually managing to do all of this and not trip them over every piece of furniture in here, in some faraway corner of her mind, Clarke has this ridiculous breakthrough moment of going: _Huh. How about that. Maybe I haven’t completely forgotten how this works, after all._ Followed quickly with: _Umm…really not important and shut the hell up because, ohmygod, you are taking. Off. Lexa’s. Shirt. Right. Now.)_

When she just can’t stand it anymore and needs _skin_ , Clarke wrenches her lips away and practically rips Lexa’s shirt from her shoulders, tossing it… _somewhere, she doesn’t fucking care at all where_ , then slowly drags her palms down Lexa’s bare arms.

They both whimper that time. 

_Fuuuuuck. Yeah, those muscles are so much better up close._

Clarke’s hands just can’t seem to settle anywhere from there, roving over the ridges and slopes of Lexa’s abs _(of course she would have actual, real life abs, my god)_ , and up along her ribs and down the firm lines of her back, feeling each flex and jump beneath her fingers as Lexa moves against her. Mapping it all out, familiarizing herself with every curve, her thoughts narrowing to only: _This. This. This._

_(Lexa feels like softness and light and strength, all at once. She has to close her eyes for a second as the impact flows over her, and when she does…she sees that conjured, proud warrior, still waiting for Clarke to place her on canvas.)_

It causes Clarke’s breath to catch high in her chest. 

The image disappears in an instant, though, when she feels Lexa’s fingers slide under the band of her jeans. 

Clarke slams back into herself, her eyes flying open and her mouth dropping open against the crook of Lexa’s neck, rasping out a choked gasp. They stumble sideways a bit, and as Clarke scrabbles to right them, her fingers scratch roughly across Lexa’s back. 

And that seems to light. Lexa. Right. _Up._

She makes this quiet growly noise way, way down her throat that is so lethal it practically _puddles_ Clarke on the spot, and in the next moment — Lexa is tugging open the button of Clarke’s jeans with absolute _intent._

_(She’s beginning to pick up on a theme here, too. Lexa seems to like it an awful lot when Clarke gets a little feisty with her.)_

_Ohhhh…now, that’s interesting._

_It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?_

And she is so damn fortunate they’ve just reached her bed, too, because as Lexa starts lowering Clarke’s zipper, Clarke’s knees completely fail her. _Nope. Nope. I was wrong. No game whatsoever. I’m just as useless as ever with this woman…_

In a move that falls halfway between pure motivation and pure desperation, she grabs Lexa by the shoulders and just yanks them down onto the bed, ending up with her thighs bracketing Lexa’s hips, her hands braced on either side of Lexa’s head. 

Lexa lands with a delicate, throaty laugh, her wide eyes shimmering when they settle on Clarke. 

Everything stops. They just hold in place and watch each other, fogged up and panting — the moment thumping between them like the buzz-rush anticipation of a roller coaster cresting…right before it hits that steep, all-out _drop._

Clarke rakes her gaze over Lexa.

_Alright. So, even if your technique is a little graceless, Griffin, you gotta admit — it’s effective as hell._

It doesn’t matter, anyway. She clearly has zero chance of being smooth here.

_Because, god…look at her._

Stretched out beneath her, drenched in the low glow of moonlight and citylight spilling in through Clarke’s window, wearing nothing but a simple black bra and those same tight-fitting pants that have been distracting Clarke all through rehearsal today. 

She is just _stunning._ That’s all there is to it. 

No wonder Clarke’s having so much trouble believing this is real.

“Are you okay?” Clarke breathes, her eyes positively anchored on the red, wet, lush shade of Lexa’s lips this close.

Lexa reaches up and tucks a strand of Clarke’s hair behind her ear, then lightly runs her fingertips over Clarke’s jaw, studying her. There’s something kindling in Lexa’s eyes as she looks at her, something that’s a little dreamier around the edges than the ignition-force _presence_ that was there just a moment ago. She lifts her gaze, and what Clarke sees there is so honest and adoring it almost stops her heart. 

“I’m perfect.” 

Two words. That’s all it takes. Clarke’s neglected, unreliable confidence sputters down, and she feels utterly outmatched in every definable way all over again. _(It tends to happen a lot around Lexa.)_

To prevent herself from just downright _melting_ (because she really, really needs to stay sharp right now, and _god, the struggle_ ) — Clarke leans down, pulls in a ragged breath, and just _sinks_ into Lexa, kissing her slowly, thoroughly, reclaiming their momentum until Lexa is restless and flushed and shifting in the most incredibly delicious ways beneath her, and Clarke’s hands are all over Lexa’s body, kneading every bit of soft, warm skin she can reach.

Then it’s just a whirlwind of _more._ Of Lexa’s breathing getting harsher, faster. Of buttons snapping free and clasps opening and layers being stripped off, flung to the side. Of their kisses growing fiercer, hotter. 

Something is rising fast inside Clarke, reaching right into that boiling core base of her that’s nothing but blown pupils and sweat, breath and pulse, and it’s shattering her ability to concentrate on anything beyond what’s separating her from Lexa anymore. And before she can even process she’s doing it, really, Clarke leans up on one elbow to shuck her bra to the floor. 

Lexa’s eyes fall, deadlocked on her chest. 

And maybe it’s because she’s so focused on that, on watching how Lexa’s gaze heats up as she takes in that initial glimpse of Clarke’s breasts: her quick intake of breath, the way her tongue darts out and wets her lips as she inches her eyes back up to Clarke’s — but she doesn’t realize where Lexa’s hands have migrated until she feels fingertips dipping beneath the edge of her underwear. 

The instant she does, though? She can’t seem to pay attention to _anything else._

It must show up on her face, some pinched-brow flicker of nerves, perhaps, that gives her away, because as soon as Lexa checks her reaction, she hesitates, then immediately withdraws her hands, bringing them up to rest against the curve of Clarke’s lower back. She peers at Clarke a little anxiously, like she’s trying hard to find the quickest path to whatever Clarke is thinking.

“It’s alright,” Lexa begins, her fingers sketching gentle figure eight designs over the sensitive skin of Clarke’s back. “We don’t have to —“

Clarke shakes her head, silencing Lexa’s assurances with a light brush of her lips. They exchange a charged look. 

“It’s just been a minute, that’s all,” Clarke finally confides.

Lexa seems a little surprised by her admission, but she covers it quickly. She studies Clarke as if she’s working out some equation in her head — piecing together the arithmetic of all the romantic variables in Clarke’s past that she’s maybe been curious about, but far too respectful to ever ask. She actually sounds a bit relieved when she tells Clarke: “For me, too.”

(And even though Clarke had already sort of snooped out that information before, she still thinks: _Fucking hell, Lexa. You certainly could have fooled me.)_

Outwardly, though, she just gives Lexa a small, knowing smile. _Augh. When did this happen? I’ve never been nervous like this before._

Clarke glances down and back again, her eyes panning up the length of Lexa’s abdomen. 

_God. Maybe because it’s never been more worth it before._

She’s annoyed with herself for the glimmer of insecurity blooming inside of her right now, but that doesn’t make it any less existent. It also doesn’t stop her body from responding accordingly: leaning down lower, holding her chest away from making contact with Lexa, concealing as much of herself into the mattress as she can. _(She knows Lexa has already noticed all this, too, just by the way she’s looking at her.)_

“I think maybe my brain just caught up, you know?”

Which is a much more succinct way of saying: _I’m a touch-starved mess who’s gone from scraping through the fucking Sahara of dry spells to being flung over the side of Niagara Falls by someone who I’m beginning to suspect might be an actual, authentic sex magic wizard or something. Add the fact that she’s way, way keyed into my moods and I’ve been hung up on her since the moment we met, and…yeah._

_I’m having a bit of trouble dealing._

In an attempt to prevent the situation from becoming too awkward, Clarke shrugs into a feeble joke. “I mean, it’s the worst, really. Always ruining the moment, that thing.” 

Something softens in Lexa’s gaze. Then she shifts, sliding further up the bed to prop herself up on her elbows. She watches Clarke for just a moment more, then lifts her chin and reaches back behind her, maintaining eye contact, and one swift movement later — Lexa is tossing her bra over the side of the bed.

Which annihilates Clarke’s ability to focus on Lexa’s face altogether. Her eyes drop down, widening in what has to be a display of comically _pathetic_ proportions before they climb back to Lexa’s again. 

There’s no way Lexa is having any trouble reading what she’s thinking now. _(It’s basically just a string of jibberish that ends in a heartfelt and entirely grateful: ‘daaaaamn’.)_

Lexa swallows, allowing the smallest grin to briefly tease across her mouth. She reaches down, grasping Clarke’s arms. “Come here?” A slight tug at the back of Clarke’s elbow. 

Her voice is pitched low, and quiet, repeating the same phrase that’s been haunting Clarke since the night Lexa first kissed her, the night she first heard the shredded, magnificent sound of Lexa’s control giving out. But this is different. This is calm. Purposeful. Achingly gentle. Achingly certain.

Trusting. 

After one final wobbly delay of hesitation, Clarke follows Lexa’s lead, shuffling forward. Her thighs settle along the outside curve of Lexa’s knees — something that causes Clarke’s pulse to instantly pick up — and as she situates herself in front of Lexa, she struggles to not give in to her instinct to cover herself up, concentrating on keeping their gazes connected. _(She’s also fighting the urge to let her eyes go wandering off again. There’s a whole new expanse of skin in range right now, and she’s absolutely dying to do some exploring.)_

She gets her opportunity sooner than she expects. Because as soon as she closes in, Lexa reaches for her hands, slotting her fingers in between Clarke’s, then slowly guides them up until Clarke’s palms are resting against the flat planes of Lexa’s stomach, her thumbs pressed into the dip just below Lexa’s hipbones. 

Clarke watches her, trying to breathe. Trying to remember how.

The feeling of Clarke’s hands on her draws a convulsive sigh out of Lexa, her eyelids fluttering as it rolls through her, which sends an immediate shot of heat between Clarke’s legs. _Ohmygod._

Lexa gives her a determined look, hooking Clarke’s thumbs under the band of the shorts she’s wearing. Again, it’s something simple; neither of them knew they’d be here tonight. Neither of them had the chance to put on the thought out, planned out, first date gear, just in case this might happen. But _god_ , it does not matter. Because this — the image of Lexa, _topless_ , leaning back against Clarke’s pillows in her little everyday boy shorts — this is already enough to short-circuit Clarke’s brain. What Lexa is doing right now, though…it’s got Clarke revisiting Raven’s warning about spontaneous human combustion. If ever there were a moment to be legitimately concerned about the possibility, this might be it. 

And then, with just a slight, leading push of her hands, Lexa sends them forward. She lifts her hips and _(oh fuck, this is actually happening)_ Clarke takes over from there, sliding that last scrap of fabric down Lexa's long, long legs, and...

_God. Damn._

__

The sight of Lexa completely bare surges through Clarke in a way that nothing ever, _ever_ has before.

She can’t speak. Can’t move, really. And she definitely can’t take her eyes away. She just sort of sits back on her knees and _stares_ , her head ringing with a single, resounding phrase: _I want…I want…_

 _Jesus fucking Christ, I want._

All those wandering, wondering moments she’s imagined this. _(And oh, how she has.)_ All those twitchy, keyed up, _keep-her-up_ visuals that have been tormenting Clarke, stretched tight over these many merciless, lonely weeks. And none of it even got close to the real thing. 

Nothing could have ever prepared her for this. 

Lexa is…she’s so beautiful it actually makes Clarke _hurt_ , all over. A flawless blend of smooth, lean muscle and soft curves and _good god_ , those _hips_ and those _legs_ and that perfect, bite-able little _butt_ and _god, I shouldn’t be staring so long, but seriously, holy fuck…_

Everything inside Clarke is quaking, burning, aching, twisting and she just doesn’t even know where to _start first_ and —

_“Clarke.”_

Clarke has heard Lexa say her name so many times. It has always, _always_ struck right through to the center of her, even from the very beginning. She’s felt whole planets folding in on themselves in the way Lexa says her name. 

But the breathless, irresistible, _needy_ way Lexa just called out to her… 

Clarke thinks maybe the only reason she was born or ever bothered to put on a soul was just to hear Lexa say her name like that.

It has her clamoring forward in a _hurry._ Nerves forgotten; no more shyness allowed. She crawls up Lexa’s body with this delirious, scrambling, sweltering feeling blazing through her veins, yanking her own underwear off somewhere in the process, and then Lexa is reaching for her and then…

That first moment of _them, together_ — skin on skin on skin, every inch of them syncing up thighs to bellies to breasts — sets off inside Clarke like cloud burst lightning, devastating her senses all at once.

“Oh, god…” Clarke can only curl into Lexa and ride it out, her voice so raspy and raw and ruined she doesn’t even recognize it. 

It’s…there are no words for this. It’s all just heat and sparks and shivers, _everywhere._ Lexa’s hands on her back, clutching her close; that muffled, desperate, _incredible_ sound she makes against Clarke’s shoulder. And when Lexa tilts up her hips and presses into her… _god._ Clarke’s sure she’s never felt more like dying than she does at that moment.

Lexa is moving underneath her and shaking underneath her and…

_Wait._

Lexa is shaking. 

Clarke pulls back and seeks out Lexa’s eyes, but she’s keeping them away from her, looking just over Clarke’s shoulder, instead, at some point on the ceiling above them. She can tell Lexa is working hard to level out her breathing, too.

“Hey…”

When Lexa still won’t look at her, Clarke places her hand in the center of Lexa’s chest, pressing in lightly. “Lexa, hey…” she murmurs.

Lexa’s eyes fall shut and she bites her lip, shaking her head, then squeezes Clarke to her just a bit tighter. “I’m okay, I’m just…” Her voice is still unsteady, but she seems to be gathering herself a little; Clarke can feel her tremors winding down. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no sorries,” Clarke says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She slides her hand up to cup Lexa’s jaw with gentle fingers, a wordless plea for Lexa to come back to her.

Eventually, it works. Lexa opens her eyes, turning to her, and the unguarded, vulnerable expression on her face just absolutely _scrapes_ something inside Clarke. Because it’s not fear looking back at her at this moment. Not even hesitancy. Those things can’t exist in what Lexa is offering her here. 

This is far too precious for that. 

It’s Lexa letting her in. Throwing wide that last door she was holding closed and letting her _see,_ finally and completely, who’s been waiting on the other side. 

Lexa lets out a breath, and some of the apology fades from her gaze. She reaches between them, blanketing her hand over Clarke’s where it still rests atop her chest, then gives Clarke a look that’s nothing but _pure_ and _sure._ She taps her chest once for emphasis. “There’s just a lot going on in here right now.” 

_God._

_Just…god._

It takes Clarke a second to recover from that. 

This is what it means, being with Lexa. Because Clarke knows where this is coming from. This is the part of her Clarke has always recognized — has always just _felt_ — flowing right under the surface. It’s where she writes from, works from, where she holds everyone she cares about, and where she first showed Clarke precisely how hard and true her heart beats when you’ve been lucky enough to get inside of it. 

This is the part of Lexa who doesn’t give herself halfway. _Can’t_ give herself halfway. Not when you’re this close. 

It’s so much. And to have her here, now, placing all of this in front of Clarke…

All she wants is to be enough. 

So she smiles down at Lexa, silently adding two more vows to the ones she’s already sworn to this extraordinary miracle of a girl tonight.

_No matter what happens, I’m going to earn this._

_No matter what we run into when we leave here, I will keep this safe._

With a rough swallow, Clarke brushes her thumb over Lexa’s lips, then places a soft kiss there like a sigil, hoping Lexa can sense how much she wants to mark these next words. “You’re okay,” Clarke tells her, and it comes out quiet, but strong. “I’m with you. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Lexa lowers her eyes, turning that over. It’s such a small pause, only the span of a few heartbeats, really. But Clarke can almost feel whole centuries stretching out in the space between Lexa glancing away, and returning to her.

Then she smiles. 

And something lifts right off inside Clarke. 

Because it looks like Lexa just might believe her.

The swell of emotions singing through her is so immense that, at first, Clarke can’t do anything but fight off the tears that cloud up her vision. _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not the time, Clarke. Worst possible time, Clarke…_

When she’s finally able to speak, her voice still breaks. “You’re wonderful.”

Lexa’s smile grows a little wider.

“You’re so, so unexpected…” A grin slowly spreads across Clarke’s face as she begins to rain fluttery kisses over Lexa’s cheeks, her jaw, that adorable crinkle that appears at the bridge of her nose when the cascade of kisses makes Lexa laugh. 

“And I was so not ready for you, Lexa…”

Their eyes connect, and hold. 

“But I’m _right here_ now, okay? I’m right here, and I’m with you.”

For a heavy, sustained moment, it’s just green on blue, linked. And in that pause, Clarke swears she can detect something bristling between them that seems so much larger and reaches so much farther than this room, or this night, or even simply _this._ Lexa looks at her, and Clarke sees: _Inescapable. Star-charted. Infinite._

Lexa looks at her, and for the first time ever, Clarke feels like she’s maybe finally figured out exactly where she’s supposed to be.

It’s too overwhelming to sort through. If Clarke starts unraveling _that,_ she won’t be any help to Lexa, and she needs Clarke to be better than that right now. 

So without breaking their connection, Clarke intertwines their fingers, then drops a gentle kiss in the center of Lexa’s chest. “You’re okay?” she asks softly. 

Because no matter how insanely wired up she’s feeling at this point (and if she were forced to assign some kind of qualifier to what lying here actually naked with Lexa is doing to her, it would probably include the words _‘imminent detonation’)_ — if this is too much for Lexa, for _any_ reason at all, this ends right here. She has to know Lexa is alright first. That’s far more important.

Lexa is quiet for a few breaths, her eyes roaming from place to place over Clarke’s features. She reaches out and mirrors Clarke’s action from a moment ago, rubbing the pad of her thumb just under Clarke’s lips, tracing their shape. Then she glances back up, the corner of her mouth edging into an easy, contented grin. “Still perfect.”

 _Yeah. Yeah, you totally are._

This time, when Clarke leans down to kiss her…Lexa doesn’t let her go. 

She folds her arms around Clarke and kisses back with a _vengeance_ — pulling Clarke down against the entire full-blooded, blushing, hot length of her — then proceeds to plunge them right back into that crazy, explosive energy stream that brought them here, tearing each other’s clothes off the whole way. Lexa stokes Clarke up until she’s panting, until she’s trembling, until the only word Clarke can see or hear or say is: _“Lexa”_ , whispered against Lexa’s lips like an invocation. 

And that changes something.

The sound of her name slipping all tumbly and flustered and paper thin from Clarke’s mouth kick starts an entirely new level of urgency in Lexa. Everything about the way she’s holding Clarke and kissing Clarke seems to switch tracks, hurtling them toward something much more eager, more _endgame_ than the breath-stealing place they just reached a moment ago. 

Clarke’s so pulsed up and rattled she hardly registers the fact that Lexa is rolling them over, swapping their positions. Not until she feels the mind-blowing sensation of Lexa’s weight settling against her, Lexa’s hips nudging between Clarke’s legs. 

Her ability to think doesn’t get one bit easier from that point on. 

Because then Lexa’s hands are _everywhere._ Roaming over Clarke from the base of her throat to the inside edge of her thighs, and Lexa’s lips are dragging across the soft rise of her breasts, and Clarke is absolutely, positively, without a doubt on _fire._

And, _god_ , it’s so much, what rages through her at that moment. It’s like being hit with this wave of storm surge high chills and blast furnace heat, all at once. Clarke sucks in a breath and leans her head back, digging her heels into the mattress, her body roiling up under each touch to match the press and reach of Lexa’s hands.

“Oh god, Lexa…oh god…damn…fucking…god…” 

The words fly out of Clarke in some fragmented swirl of moans and stammered gasping that makes Lexa grin around the nipple in her mouth, rumbling her approval, her eyes taking on this dangerous gleam that hints — even if she’s just getting to know the full breadth of Clarke’s propensity for swearing — it might be one of her new favorite things. 

She props herself up over Clarke, caging her between her arms, and nestles in, and Clarke immediately gets the message, loud and clear: Lexa is planning on staying right where she is for a while. See how much more of this she can summon out of Clarke. 

Clarke tangles her hands in Lexa’s hair, jaw clenched, neck muscles straining against the complete sensory overload snaking over her body right now, and thinks: _Jesus Christ, she hasn’t even touched me yet._

_I really may not make it through this, after all._

And then Lexa starts doing this tongue flick thing that is just _sinful_ , and — after that — Clarke simply dissolves into a litany of shudders and ‘please’ and jumbled, mumbled, four-letter praise.

Lexa steers her into a place that’s just past ‘vision-tunneling-can’t-seem-to-catch-breath’ and just before ‘loss-of-consciousness-might-need-to-call-for-help’, then seems to take pity on Clarke and leans forward, kissing her back from the edge. Smirking so hard Clarke can almost _taste_ it.

For a few seconds, all Clarke can do is just lie there, chest heaving, completely caved into the bed, and slow blink up at Lexa. Then she cups her hands on either side of Lexa’s face and pins her with a look she hopes transmits precisely how much she means what she’s about to say. 

“When my friends ask how I left this life, Lexa, please tell them I had no regrets.”

To her credit, she doesn’t gloat. Lexa just drops her head and snickers into Clarke’s chest for a second. 

Then gets right back to endangering her health all over again.

Lexa’s hands are _sure_ , and Lexa’s mouth is… _honestly, just blasphemous_ , and she’s moving over her in a way that has Clarke spinning up faster and harder than she ever has before. Learning her so easily, so quickly, her eyes constantly checking in, watching Clarke for clues. Fascinated and serious and just so _there_ with her. 

Because Clarke can feel it, underneath it all, exactly what Lexa is telling her. Imprinting into her skin. It’s in the way Lexa skims her fingers over the curve of Clarke’s hips and down her thighs, taking her time, reading the shape of her. It’s how she figures out what makes Clarke gasp, makes her squirm, makes her rise up like she’s been sizzled through with a firebolt. Or cry out, clamp down on Lexa’s arms hard enough to bruise. _I’m here, too._

It’s in the way she mouths along the slope and sway of Clarke’s belly, or that moment when Lexa rests her forehead against Clarke’s sternum, lets her eyes fall shut, and simply _breathes_ her in. Lets it all flow over her for a minute. _I’m with you._

And it’s in the way that — each time their eyes meet — what Clarke sees reflected there is so blinding and true and unquestionably _Lexa_ she swears her heart might actually give out, it’s getting so full. 

_I’m here just for you._

_God,_ it’s never been like this with anyone before, and she never even knew it could be like this _at all_ before, and… _god…god, this is so much._ The only thing Clarke can do to contain all of the feelings rocketing through her is just guide Lexa back up to her mouth and hang on. Arch into steady motion of her hands, and let Lexa take her right into her undoing. 

There will be time later to think. But she can’t, not now, not when Lexa’s lips feel like this and not when Lexa’s fingers are trailing lower and lower, and not when — 

Lexa’s hand pauses just over the hollow at Clarke’s hip. She breaks their kiss and looks at Clarke — mouth open, lips poised right above Clarke’s — taking deep, thick breaths of her. A silent question in her eyes.

Prompting the quickest answer Clarke’s ever given in her _life._ “Yes, god…please…” She nods against Lexa’s lips. “Please…” 

Clarke rakes her fingertips up Lexa’s back and sinks them into her shoulders, squeezing _hard_ , and then Lexa’s hand slips down between them, dips low, and —

“Fuck…” The word turns into a whine and then into a moan and then into some kind of noise that approaches _otherworldly_ as it leaves Clarke’s mouth. 

And _oh god,_ the moment Lexa feels her for the first time. She gives this ragged, breathy groan that Clarke would probably rejoice about…

…if not for the fact that she’s pretty sure she actually just died. 

Because there’s nothing but _heat_ gusting over her right now. She just thought she’d been in it before, but this? This is like spiraling straight up into the goddamn _sun._

It’s just _so much heat_ rolling through her, stuttering up her breath, shivering across her brain…and here it is… _here’s_ her immolation, _here’s_ her conflagration, it’s finally caught up with her, and it…is… _amazing._ Clarke feels like she’s burning right up, and she never. Wants. It. To. Stop. 

She makes a strangled sound and clutches Lexa’s arms, panting into her neck, and everything in the room, in the universe, in the history of ever just pares down to this — to the wet, hot slide of Lexa’s fingers moving through her, to the practically _starving_ look on Lexa’s face as she stares heavy-lidded down at Clarke, savoring every second of it. 

And that’s when Lexa’s _‘oh fuck, this is really happening’_ moment seems to hit her. She bites her lip and leans down to rest her cheek against Clarke’s belly, slamming her eyes shut as her fingers slip and explore, her other hand dragging a slow path up from Clarke’s hip and over her breasts and back again, taking it all in. Then she presses her open mouth just below Clarke’s navel and sighs into her, ending it on a hoarse, awestruck, drawn out: _“God, Clarke…”_ that immediately gets filed somewhere in Clarke’s brain under the title of: _‘Best. Memories. Ever.’_

Because, _oh yeah,_ she’s definitely going to hold onto that one.

Lexa raises up and locks eyes with her, and there’s something so simultaneously amazed and disbelieving and just plain _primitive_ in the way she’s looking at Clarke that Clarke can’t seem to settle on a reaction. (It’s warming her through on two very different levels, that’s for sure, which is probably why Lexa looks so stunned right now. Clarke is _soaked.)_

 _“God…”_ Lexa says again, and Clarke loves hearing that raspy bite in her voice. 

The movement of her fingers causes Clarke to jerk, sucking in a breath, one hand twisting into the blankets below them and the other skittering up Lexa’s stomach, her fingers splayed out and twitching like they’ve been held to a high-voltage current, her palm coming to rest over the one-two thunder crash of Lexa’s heart pounding away in her chest. 

And that erases every last trace of anything still having trouble accepting this from Lexa’s gaze. She moves up higher and braces over her, and the next time Lexa meets her eyes, the only thing Clarke sees there is a whole lot of laser-cut _drive._

Clarke folds her arms around Lexa, absolutely helpless to stop her hips from rocking against Lexa’s hand, already desperate for _more, more, more._

Lexa doesn’t need to be told twice. She glides through Clarke and Clarke’s head slams back into the mattress and then she’s simply _airborne._

Because that’s exactly what it feels like. There’s no working up required, no long tease or adjustments to be made. Lexa sinks into her, and Clarke just _sails._

Lexa matches her pace to the steady rhythm of Clarke’s hips and leans down to kiss her, their lips tangling in a messy collision of open mouths and tongues and breathless moans and _fuck, I’m not going to last long like this._ There’s already pressure building low in her belly, rippling down deep into her hips and tightening under her ribs, and each time Lexa pushes into her, it feels like fucking _shock waves_ pulsing through her body.

Then Lexa rests back on her knees a little while she reaches down with her free hand, wrapping Clarke’s leg around her waist and shifting in as closely as she can, seeking out more contact. It deepens the angle just enough to cause Clarke to cry out, pitching her hips into each long thrust of Lexa’s fingers, watching the motion roll down through her muscles, watching Lexa tilt her head back and give this glorious, gravelly moan in response that — if Clarke could actually process coherent thoughts anymore — would be _good god…so file-worthy._

Their eyes meet. Lexa is touching every bit of Clarke’s skin she can reach as she builds her up, making it all about the nearness of her right now, the _here-ness_ of her right now, and it’s so perfect, and it feels so, so good, but as if by some unspoken agreement passing between them in that moment it suddenly just doesn’t feel like _enough_ anymore. She can see Lexa wants to get closer. She wants to get closer.

Clarke manages to say: _“I need…”_ in this raspy, pushed-beyond-her-limits expulsion of breath, and in the next moment — Lexa’s arm slides underneath the small of Clarke’s back and she’s being gathered up and settled right into Lexa’s lap, straddling her thigh.

And _god,_ if she wasn’t already shuddering on the brink of complete obliteration…the sight of this alone could send her reeling right off into the void, never to be heard from again. 

_Holy. Hell._

Lexa is all flushed and mussed up and Clarke has never understood the phrase _‘looking like an absolute snack’_ with more sparkling fucking clarity than she does right then, with Lexa tangled around her, holding her up, her fingers buried inside of her and those green eyes burning through her with one single-minded objective: to make Clarke come so hard she forgets her own name.

Because she’s certain that’s what’s about to happen. 

“Fuck…fuck…fuck…” Clarke’s chanting, shattered cries ring out into the room, slide down the walls, and for a handful of seconds she’s seized with something that’s almost like animal-instinct panic: the response of an organism flooded with too much adrenaline, too much feeling, too much _everything,_ shaking in at once, firing conflicting signals to _run, fight, hide, this is more than you’re ready for —_

But when she peels her eyes open and finds Lexa again, it all turns down. She can’t be scared, not with Lexa looking at her like this. Not with Lexa touching her like this. She’s got her. No matter what, she’ll be there. 

After that, it’s all just heavy, warm breaths and soft, electric friction and hands… _sweet Jesus, her hands._ Those long, exquisite fingers threading through her, filling her, hitting every white hot spot inside and driving _up._

Lexa watching her the whole way, eyes gone liquid and so, so dark.

Lexa — who doesn’t stop kissing her, doesn’t take her mouth off of her; who swallows her moans and hums into her skin and grinds her hips against Clarke in this way that is spiking right through her because it’s changing up the rhythm and charging up the pressure and it’s just the full on, flat out, hottest thing Clarke’s ever _seen._

Lexa, who is so solid, so stable — who holds her up and draws her up and seems to know exactly where Clarke needs her, and is just right there, right there, right fucking _there,_ every time.

Clarke clutches Lexa to her, panting, desperate, chasing her own oblivion on the curl of Lexa’s fingers and the firm support of her thigh; Lexa’s low voice next to her ear, murmuring syllables she can’t make sense of but still understands — spoken in a language her heart knows, her gut knows, her blood knows, words that reach down into the biology of her, and sound only like _let go, let go, let go…_

The heat builds and builds and Clarke gets higher and higher and she can tell it’s going to completely take her apart when it breaks: can hear it in the sounds she can’t control coming out of her mouth and can feel it in the tight, erratic grind of her hips and can taste it in the way Lexa says her name as she thrusts into her that final time that sends Clarke hurtling over the brink, but there’s no worry, there’s no fear, there’s just _up,_ and there’s just… 

_“Lexa…”_

Clarke comes in a hunched over cry, her hands rough around Lexa’s shoulder blades. 

And she was right: 

What happens to her in that moment feels exactly like being taken apart. 

She flies out to a place she can only define as _beyond,_ and comes back trembling and hot, her face buried into the side of Lexa’s neck, rearranged into some new helix of herself that includes so much of Lexa it’s like she’s practically stamped along her DNA, written everywhere inside of her.

In the quiet that settles after, they slump against each other — just breathing, recovering. Lexa rubs her back in gentle circles while Clarke’s senses return to her in stages, filtering in as the sweat cooling on her neck, her pulse rate winding down, the warmth of Lexa’s palm against her skin. The softness of Lexa’s lips as she trails light kisses over Clarke’s cheek, behind her ear, the corner of her mouth. 

There’s something dawning inside Clarke; a weightlessness sifting through her like she’s never known or experienced before — and for just a second, she wonders if this is what peace feels like, when people say they’ve found it. Just the hushed half-light of this room, the safe and sound stillness draped around them right now. 

A place where she gets this: Lexa wrapped up in her arms, pressing a soft smile into her shoulder. Looking at Clarke as if she wants to set her whole heart down right here, between them. 

She wonders if it’s possible to fold themselves up in this moment, and stay here forever. 

She wonders if there’s any way they could try.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, in a voice still heavy-eyed and stretching its limbs.

Clarke inhales, long and low, a grin sliding into place. “Honestly? I don’t think there’s a word for what I am, Lexa. But I can assure you, _‘okay’_ can’t even touch where I’m at. _‘Okay’_ belongs on the, like, lowest rung of where I’m at.” 

She leans back to demonstrate her point. “Here’s _‘okay’_ …” She holds her hand down to her side, hovering right above the mattress. “And here’s me.” She raises her hand above her head, stretching toward the ceiling, then cuts back to Lexa, who is now smirking at her, _beaming_ at her, looking so happy and delighted and beautiful that it makes Clarke’s heartbeat trip, her voice a little raspier when she adds: “And, actually, that’s not even right, either. You’d probably need, you know, like, one of those fire engine ladders to reach me. Or something that runs on jet fuel, maybe. That’s probably closer to it.” 

She’s babbling, she knows, but Lexa doesn’t seem to mind at all. She’s just watching her with that same floaty, absorbed look on her face — her eyes darting between Clarke’s mouth and Clarke’s eyes — and Clarke can tell she’s thinking about kissing her. _(She’s beginning to clue into the way Lexa looks when she’s thinking about kissing her, and when that realization hits, it makes her pause.)_

_How is this my life right now?_

That’s what sobers her up, and brings her back. The part of that question that won’t stop clattering around in her head: _Right now._

 _(She’s leaving, Clarke.)_

Clarke closes her eyes to the thought, _(if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist)_ then twines her arms around Lexa’s neck, resting their foreheads together. When she speaks again, her tone is far, far more serious. “God, Lexa, that was…” 

And even though she still can’t find anything to follow that with that would be enough, when Lexa just nods against her, and sighs, Clarke knows she doesn’t need to keep trying. Lexa already understands. 

She glances up, seeking Lexa’s eyes. 

She’s still thinking about kissing Clarke.

So Clarke gladly obliges.

It only takes a sharp hitch of breath from Lexa, a quiet rumble of a moan purred softly against Clarke’s lips, and they are sparking right up again. Soon they are just a tangle of hands and whimpers — Clarke braced over Lexa in the center of the bed, kissing her hard and deep — fueled by the fever escalation she can feel thrumming through Lexa, and the sheer high-key, _my turn_ want sizzling just under Clarke’s skin. 

She’s never felt it like this before. Never had it reach right down into the foundations of her, make her ache like this. Spurred on by this unswerving desire to have Lexa breathless and undone, her name in Lexa’s mouth, Lexa’s taste on Clarke’s tongue.

And it’s just _her._ Clarke wants Lexa, she’s always wanted Lexa — but it’s something else, too. She can try to shut it out, but she can’t chase it out, not completely — she kisses Lexa and feels the seconds ticking down, the impermanence of all this. It’s still _there_ , it’s still true, it’s still happening… 

She just found Lexa, and Lexa is _going away._

There will be distance, and separation, and she doesn’t know what that will mean for them or do to them but she has this _chance._ There is a world still spinning on outside of these walls and it’s full of ways that this might not last, but Clarke doesn’t care, not at this moment. 

Because earlier tonight, Lexa told her she was trying to take everything she could from here and now, so she can remember. 

And Clarke has _this chance…_

To offer Lexa something she’ll never want to forget.

Lexa pitches up into her and Clarke can’t wait anymore, there’s no time for that, not with how Lexa’s hips are pressing into her, not with those soft, urgent sounds spilling off her lips…

Not with what Clarke’s just discovered.

Lexa is just... _drenched_.

“Lexa…fuck…” Clarke shudders the words against Lexa’s mouth and gets an answering noise from Lexa that’s frayed and moaning and shaped like Clarke’s name, carried up to them by Clarke’s slick fingers.

That drives Clarke forward _quick._ (She had three items on her list of wants. _One down, two to go…)_

She’ll learn and relearn every last stretch and bend of Lexa before this night is over; she’ll make sure of it. But not now. 

Lexa needs her.

It’s only a collection of minutes until the air is heavy and Lexa’s head is thrown back — one hand shaking around the smooth iron scaffolding of Clarke’s headboard, the other tugged at the back of Clarke’s neck, sliding up into her hair. Clarke’s lips and tongue sketch designs over Lexa’s throat, her chest, her breasts, nip blossoms of color around her belly button and into the groove of each hip, and somewhere in Clarke’s mind she’s charting all of it: each sound, each response, each _ohhh, I’ll be back for more of that later._ But they’re both running too hot to stay in one place for very long.

She follows the downslope of Lexa’s need, settling between her thighs, then glances up to find Lexa watching her. 

And _god_ , that moment is so intense: 

Lexa holding her gaze, breathing hard, simply taking in the sight of Clarke looking up at her from there. 

And Clarke getting totally lost in just how jaw-droppingly beautiful Lexa is.

 _I could never put this down with a paintbrush. I can try to hold onto it, but I could never capture it. I’d never get it right._

Clarke keeps her eyes on Lexa but leans down and kisses the jut of her hipbone with a subtle shake of her head. She has one last thought before the reality of what she’s doing and the… _Jesus Christ, position she’s in right now_ robs her of the ability to think about anything other than _Lexa_ and _want so bad…_

Something to balance the scales, sent up in the hopes that it might make this night burn a little slower. 

_I don’t know what I did right to deserve this, but universe? Thank you._

And with that, Clarke moves lower. 

She drags her mouth down a bit further, her heart hammering faster and faster as she closes in to press a kiss into Lexa’s inner thigh, which causes Lexa to let out a sharp-edged gasp. It hits Clarke low and shudders up through her, makes her squeeze her eyes shut for a moment. _God, I definitely want more of that._

Clarke slides her hands under Lexa’s thighs, planting a row of open-mouthed kisses down the center of her belly. She smiles into warm, soft skin when she feels the way Lexa’s muscles tense and flutter under her kisses. Smiles even harder when she draws Lexa’s knees up over her shoulders, and hears the quiet, muttered: _“oh shit”_ she gets in reply.

_(Huh. So Lexa curses, too, under the right circumstances.)_

Clarke kisses down, and down, and down — noting how Lexa’s hips are already rolling, _loving_ how Lexa’s hips are already rolling — then looks back up to search Lexa’s face; check in again.

She has her teeth sunk into that gorgeously swollen bottom lip, and when their eyes catch, Lexa makes this noise that’s less language and more _color_ , like she’s somehow condensed every shade of red into this one, perfect sound.

Clarke feels it all over — in her chest, in the down-low-heartbeat-throb between her thighs, in her tight belly flipping over and over. Feels it in the soft scratch of her voice when she looks at Lexa and promises her one more time: 

“I’ve got you.” 

Lexa’s fingers squeeze into fists around a handful of Clarke’s bedding. 

And then she lifts up her hips, and closes her eyes, and nods. 

And finally… _finally_ — Clarke’s mouth opens against her.

That first taste of Lexa explodes across Clarke’s senses in some brilliant tessellation of light and heat and _oh god, oh my god, this is everything…_

Because it just _is._ Lexa tastes exactly like Clarke knew she would, and it’s just… _everything._

Lexa cries out and it sounds like _please_ , and that’s all the encouragement or direction it takes for Clarke to start working Lexa up — searing through her in long licks and fast flicks and looping swirls of her tongue, piloting on every gasp and jolt she’s coaxing out of Lexa to figure out where to take them next, or where Lexa wants her to be. 

Clarke looks up and sees Lexa with her head tipped back and her eyes shut tight — that little wrinkle of concentration formed up between her eyebrows that is somehow both adorable and so insanely fire it pulls a low growl into Clarke’s throat when she spots it because _oh, the focus on that face right now._

Her hands keep clawing into the blankets and her hips are rising and falling in time with Clarke’s mouth…and Clarke is _gone._ Just _gone,_ in all of it. The noises Lexa is making, the goddamn sexy way her muscles flex as she moves, the silky, warm weight of her calf pressed flush to Clarke’s back, how _good_ she tastes… 

And Clarke knows no one’s ever taking _this_ from her. Name any threat you’d like, it doesn’t matter. It’s already burned too far down inside of her somewhere. _Fight me._ She’s keeping this. 

She’s still looking on when Lexa opens her eyes, and finds her. That connection sparking between them is stronger than it’s ever been before, and Clarke is so crowded with things she wants to tell her, do for her, be for her…

But with their current flowing as full-tilt and fast as it is at this moment — Clarke just wants to be inside of her even more. 

Now. 

She pulls her mouth away and reaches up, taking Lexa’s hand and lacing their fingers together, then slides her other hand up the inside of Lexa’s thigh, pausing just long enough to lock eyes with her. 

“Can I…?”

Lexa’s splintered moan and the upwards surge of her hips seems to be answer enough.

And when it happens, and Clarke sinks into Lexa…it’s like her mind goes kaleidoscopic. Just erupts in some kind of motley-hued, synesthesia chaos that completely freezes her up for what is in truth only seconds, but is so loaded down with emotion it might as well be a decade or two. Her mouth drops open as her eyes slam shut.

_Oh…my…_

Lexa calls out her name and _that_ breaks the spell, whamming Clarke back into the moment and forcing a strangled exhalation out of her lungs, and Clarke doesn’t think ever she’s been more _present for anything_ than she is right then, with her fingers sunk deep into welcoming, fierce heat, with Lexa trembling apart under her hands. 

Lexa moves against her and urges her fingers on and that’s it, they’re off again. Clarke is sliding into her and Lexa is shuddering, gasping, moaning and _oh god, this is so incredible — god, SHE’s just so incredible…_

Clarke can tell she’s close, can feel it in the way she’s clenching around her already, so she lowers herself down quickly to bring her mouth back into contact with Lexa, licking through her with a long, deep groan, her senses overflowing with that delirious _everything_ feeling all over again. 

The second Clarke touches down, Lexa’s moans pitch higher and louder, the movement of her hips gets more frantic, and soon Lexa has one hand twined with Clarke’s — both of them splayed out and pressed tight over the listing, coiled motion of Lexa’s abdominal muscles — and one hand scratching against Clarke’s scalp, running down the back of her neck…

And Clarke can tell her three-for-three moment is about to arrive. 

Can sense it shivering up Lexa’s spine, feel it pulsing around her fingers.

So with a broad stroke of her tongue and a curl at just the right angle, Clarke hums into Lexa, and sends her flying right over the edge…

And watches her galaxy girl, her firestorm girl, her impossible girl — the woman who kisses her with ocean-heart feelings and makes Clarke feel _seen_ — completely come _undone._

*********************

Afterwards, as they lay huddled together in a sweaty, lazy circle of arms — Lexa’s head resting on Clarke’s chest, Clarke’s fingers trailing gently through her hair — there’s a moment when Lexa turns to her, and she doesn’t say anything, but the way she looks at Clarke…it’s like she just needs to make sure Clarke is actually still there, that Lexa hasn’t imagined the whole thing. 

And in that quiet, twilight moment, stretched somewhere between night and now and whatever waits for them when the sun rises, something soft and warm settles around Clarke’s heart. Something she wasn’t sure she would be able to carry when she stepped into Lexa tonight, but she’s so, so certain she wants more than anything. 

Because when she reaches for Lexa to start them up all over again, Clarke has this one, prevailing, undeniable realization: 

There’s maybe no actual limit to the amount of ways Lexa can change her definition of the word beautiful. 

But Clarke would give just about anything to keep Lexa by her side long enough to find out if that’s true.

******************

In the end, the thing that ultimately drags Clarke from the refuge of her bed isn’t the sun at all, though it’s just beginning to peek over the horizon when she’s startled from sleep. 

It’s the sound of someone singing in the hallway outside her front door.

Clarke’s drowsy brain takes a few seconds to process what’s happening, for the transmission to bust through the cozy orange-tinted glow of her room and the warmth of Lexa’s body curled against hers and actually hit the right airwaves up there, make the connection.

But when it does — she is instantly, fully awake. _Oh shit. I know that voice._

_Octavia._

_Shit._

Clarke scrambles to extricate herself from the tangle of Lexa’s arms as delicately and quickly as possible, trying to avoid jostling Lexa too much. They haven’t been asleep more than an hour at this point — one panicked glance at the clock confirms this; lost themselves in a marathon session of the most mind-bending sex she’s ever… _okay, focus, Clarke. Emergency situation. Get your head in the goddamn game…_

She rips her eyes away from Lexa’s sleeping and _so naked and pretty_ form and shimmies into a nearby t-shirt, moving faster now that she can hear keys jangling in the hallway. 

Clarke’s halfway out her door and still hopping on one foot to pull on some boxers when the front door opens.

“…take another little piece of my heart now, bay-beh- _oh, Jesus H. Christ!”_ Octavia grimaces and thrusts her hands out in front of her face. “What the hell is _that_ doing out in a shared space, Griff?” She waves her hands in a frantic circle, warding off the sight of Clarke, who’s still bits to the wind and now hopelessly entangled in her own underwear. “Put some fucking pants on, girl…”

“Shh! Keep your voice down!” Clarke hisses, tugging the boxers up her legs in some jerky contortion that’s a little reminiscent of that ridiculous _‘Hotline Bling’_ video, if her utter humiliation could allow Clarke to acknowledge such a thing right now. “I’m _trying…”_

She finally manages to wrestle the stupid, twisted-up garment into place. “Alright, fine. Safe.”

Octavia drops her hands with a disgusted sigh. “I mean — ” 

“Seriously, though…” Clarke cuts her off in a low, insistent murmur, sending an anxious glance back over her shoulder as she pulls her bedroom door shut. “Please be quiet, okay?”

Octavia’s face falls into a suspicious, narrow-eyed glare. “I take it we have company?” She says after a moment. Her tone is much softer, at least, but it’s eerily flat. 

Clarke knows that tone, too. That’s O’s _‘you’re-about-to-get-told_ ’ voice. She blinks at Octavia, struggling to come up with any way she can answer her that won’t lead to Clarke getting lectured. _(Most likely while stuck in a headlock. ‘Cause that’s totally happened before.)_

And then she catches a glimpse of what’s hanging from the floor lamp just over Octavia’s left shoulder.

_Oh. So that’s where her shirt ended up._

_Awesome._

It’s fairly easy for Octavia to notice Clarke’s guilt-ridden stare, and track it over to its source material. She turns back to Clarke with a severely reproachful raised eyebrow. 

O already knows who that shirt belongs to. She’s probably seen Lexa wear it more times than Clarke has. 

_Yup. Totally going to get told._ She can practically _feel_ O’s arms tightening around her neck already. 

“So…” 

“Listen,” Clarke interrupts, holding up her hands. “I know, okay? I _know._ And I’ll let you yell at me all you want to, but just not, like, right now, alright? She’s exhausted, and I really don’t want to wake her up.”

Octavia chews on the undoubted _feast_ of scathing responses broiling up in her expression for a second, but — amazingly — she holds off, giving Clarke a lengthy sigh, instead. _(It still somehow feels almost as damning.)_

“You know what?” She throws her hands out to the side. “You’ve caught me in a weird place here, sister. Maybe I’m in a giving mood or something, I don’t know.” She looks Clarke up and down before adding: “Clearly, Lexa was, too, from the amount of hickeys I can see on you from here.”

Clarke startles and glances down at herself and… _oh hell._ There’s an alarming amount of vivid purplish-red marks dotting her chest, disappearing under the v-neck of her t-shirt. _Nice. Gonna need a lot of concealer today._ She peeks under the collar of her shirt. _A ton of concealer today…_ She flushes at the sight for two very different reasons before raising back up to face Octavia again.

Octavia smirks, waving her off. “But nah, I’m not going to yell at you. Not now, not later. You’re safe.” She shuffles over to the kitchen and rummages through the fridge, emerging with a bottle of orange juice.

Off Clarke’s relieved but slightly perplexed look, O explains: “We’ve been heading here from the beginning, you know? What’s the fucking point getting upset about it now? You know what you’re doing.”

Octavia drains an entire glass of juice in one go while Clarke stares unseeing at the coffee table, pondering what she’s just said. _Well. I’m glad at least one of us thinks so._

When she raises up again, O is watching her. A look of blatant concern passes across her face before Octavia wipes it clean, giving Clarke a small, tired smile. 

“Just be careful, alright?” Said with nothing but that big-hearted affection O rarely lets anyone else see, and Clarke has come to rely on more times than she can count.

Clarke swallows past the tightness in her throat. “Yeah. I will.”

Octavia flicks a glance toward Clarke’s bedroom door, then tilts her head and says, with just enough of a faint note of warning for Clarke to hear it: “Be careful with her, too.”

That doesn’t help the lump in her throat one bit. Clarke has to lift her chin and blink up at the ceiling for a second before finally just giving up, answering with a vigorous nod, instead. When she’s certain the impending threat of crying has passed, Clarke braves looking at Octavia again. _(She’ll be damned if she’s going to provide any unequivocal evidence for Octavia and Raven’s accusations about Clarke being a post-coital cryer. She’d never hear the end of it.)_

Their eyes meet. Octavia grants Clarke a few more seconds of quiet before her smirk steps back up to the plate. “So she’s exhausted, huh?”

Which gets a flustered laugh out of Clarke. She rolls her eyes and rubs a hand over her face, hoping it might help hide the blush creeping into her cheeks. “Stop it.”

“Nah, I mean…good on ya, Griff. Way to hop back in that saddle and _ride_ , girl.” O feigns twirling a lasso over her head, grinning evilly at Clarke. “Giddy up, you know?”

“Staaaahp it…” Clarke groans, tapering off into giggles. She collapses over the countertop, hiding her face from view. “For the love of…please don’t,” she grumbles, her forehead pressed into the cold, faux granite below. _(Given how badly she’s blushing now, it actually feels kind of nice.)_ She lifts up with another low groan, catching Octavia’s eye again. “Not yet. Let me have at least one day before you start giving me shit, okay? One day. That’s all I ask.”

Octavia stretches out her arms, giving Clarke a conciliatory pat on the shoulder on the return trip. “Alright, alright. Fair enough.” She points at Clarke’s chest. “But…damn, Clarke. You might want to consider a scarf or something before you head in to work today. If Raven catches sight of…” She wags her hand. “…all _that,_ you’re done for. Even I won’t be able to pull you out of that crapnado.”

Clarke drops her head and sighs, taking in the sight of all those marks again. Her stomach does a little flip-flop. _Jesus. I didn’t even realize…_

_Of course you didn’t even realize. You were too busy trying not to pass out to realize._

Her stomach flip-flops a lot harder that time, making her a bit dizzy. _Whoa._

“Okay,” Octavia drawls, stepping away from the counter and chuckling. “I can see you’ve gone full useless on me.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Let me just grab a shower and then I’ll clear out of here so you two can have your sappy little morning after in peace, ‘kay?”

Clarke rolls her eyes again, but she can’t stop the wide, full grin that sneaks onto her face. “Okay,” she agrees. _(Probably a little too quickly, but O lets her slide without commenting on it.)_ “Thanks, O.”

Octavia simply nods and heads off toward her bedroom. 

Just as Octavia is about to disappear into her room, Clarke says: “Hey, O?”

Octavia turns back.

“Before rehearsal starts up today, I need to talk to you and Lincoln, okay?”

That sets O’s hackles on red alert. “What’s going on?”

Clarke shakes her head, her mouth turning down. “I’d rather tell both of you when we’re all together, if that’s alright. It’s just…” Her eyes cut over to her bedroom door. “Not the best time right now.” _Ugh. In just about every imaginable way…_

Octavia watches her, an obvious battle with her stubborn protective instincts playing out across her face. Finally, she relents. “Yeah, alright. We can do that.”

“Thank you. Again. And, like, you know…forever.” Clarke tags a smile to the end of that, hoping Octavia understands just how grateful she is.

She thinks she does. Something warms in O’s eyes, at least, before she moves toward her room again.

“Hey, O?”

Octavia stops. When she looks back at Clarke, she’s wearing a mildly-annoyed grin. “Yes?”

“Love you.”

That earns a short laugh from O. She quirks an eyebrow. “I said to let me clear out of here before you start with all the sappy stuff, didn’t I?” She pauses and holds Clarke’s eyes for a moment, sobering a little before she finishes with: “I’m here if you need me, sister.”

She continues on into her room.

It’s not _love you, too._ It’s there, Clarke knows it’s there. _(She can read O pretty fluently.)_ But it’s more than that. Always is, with Octavia. 

It’s _love you, too_ , and _you’re never alone._

And honestly, to Clarke? It really doesn’t get much better than that.

******************l 

When Clarke steps inside her bedroom again, she has to stop for a minute, and just lean against her door, and _look._

Lexa is still sleeping, which is a good thing; she wants Lexa to at least get a sliver of rest before they have to rejoin the outside world again. But it’s fortunate for another reason, too, because Clarke’s fairly certain that if she had walked in here and discovered Lexa not only looking like this, but actually _awake and waiting for her_ , as well? Yeah, she’d totally be on the floor. 

This is already making her knees weak enough. 

_God._

Lexa is on her side, facing Clarke, the rumpled blankets tucked up under her chin and her arm stretched across the space where Clarke had been lying right before O showed up. It looks as if she had reached for her at some point and maybe started to wake up when she found Clarke wasn’t there anymore, but was too tuckered out to make the journey all the way up to the surface. 

She’s caught in just the right amount of morning light to detail the outline of her bared shoulder, the slant of her collarbone, that perfect jawline…and for a moment, Clarke is struck all over again with not only just how flat out _lovely_ she is, but she’s also marveling at that incongruous thing about Lexa that has kept Clarke staggering since the day they met — the dichotomy that lives inside of this woman, and the effect it has on Clarke. How Lexa can look so small and beautifully, intimately human lying there all bed-headed and cuddled up in her nest of blankets, but still seem like such a huge and overwhelming _presence_ in here, too. Lexa is so much she almost feels _cosmic_ at times. And seeing her like this — shields down, completely open, sleeping so peacefully in Clarke’s bed — it’s enough to knock the breath right out of Clarke.

It also makes her feel like she is entirely too far away from Lexa right now. 

Clarke peels herself away from the door and crosses over to the bed, then nudges her way back into position next to Lexa, carefully lifting up Lexa’s outstretched arm and draping it across her middle, grinning when she feels Lexa shift and immediately pull her in closer. As she snuggles in, Lexa ends up sliding her leg in between Clarke’s, and Clarke can’t stop the strained, choked-off: _“oh god”_ that escapes her when she feels Lexa press against her, nor the swarm of _‘yes-please-want-so-much-more-of-that’_ endorphins it sets off throughout her system. 

_Holy hell, that hits fast. I think it’s safe to say I am so, so hooked on her now…_

The noise causes Lexa to stir. Her arm tenses around Clarke and she scoots her hips forward a little as she begins her slow climb to awake, which just makes Clarke’s problem even worse.

Clarke lets out a long, ragged breath. She turns her head to look over at Lexa, who’s now blinking sleepily at her. When their eyes meet, Lexa smiles.

And Clarke’s belly instantly drops down to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. “Hi,” she croaks. 

“Good morning,” Lexa says, and… _oh god, that husky morning voice of hers should be illegal. That is just fucking rude._

Clarke drags her gaze away from Lexa’s mouth, meeting her eyes again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up…” The words come out sounding every bit as breathless as she feels at this moment. _Am I sweating? Fuck, I think I’m sweating…_

Lexa squints at her, a wrinkle of concern appearing between her eyes. “No, it’s alright, I need to be…” She pauses, peering at Clarke carefully. “Are you okay?”

 _Dammit._ “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Great, actually. I mean…” She makes a quick, shaky gesture to indicate their current position. “How could I not be?” She punctuates her point with a flimsy half-laugh, hoping she’s pulling off the illusion of _‘breezy’_ , rather than the _‘on the verge of a possible coronary event’_ going on inside of her right now. 

With the way Lexa is still looking at her, though — Clarke can tell she is most definitely _not._

Clarke huffs and blinks up at the ceiling for a second before she just abandons the lie altogether, blurting: “There’s just some…contact happening right now, and it’s _doing things to me.”_ She turns to Lexa again. “And _for_ me. In a big, bad way.”

It takes Lexa no more than a breath or two to catch on. She glances down the length of their bodies, then back to Clarke. “Oh.” She’s already beginning to blush.

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sor —“

Clarke reaches up and places a finger against Lexa’s lips, cutting her off. “No, no, no, no. Nuh-uh. Don’t say you’re sorry. Please no.” She takes her hand away, but continues to stare at Lexa’s mouth, fixated all over again. “I am 100% on board with the contact,” she finally says, shaking herself out of it and bringing her gaze back up to Lexa’s. “I’m, like, the contact’s biggest fan. I stan the contact, okay?” She halts her rambling and gives Lexa a wide grin, which Lexa mirrors almost immediately, seeing the genuine sincerity in Clarke’s expression. “You just kind of have a knack for driving me absolutely crazy, that’s all.”

Lexa looks down with a short, soft laugh, tightening her hold around Clarke. She swallows before she raises her eyes again. “Same here.” That blush across her cheeks has deepened a few shades.

“Oh, you drive yourself crazy, too?” Clarke teases. 

Lexa laughs a little louder, narrowing her eyes at Clarke.

“I’d believe it. I mean, my god, just look at you, Lexa. No wonder you can’t resist. Like, honestly, how do you ever get anything done?”

Lexa pulls Clarke in even closer, burying her face into Clarke’s neck. She’s full on giggling now, and the warmth of that sound plus the phenomenal feeling of Lexa — happy, blushing, gorgeous, _naked_ Lexa — against her is making Clarke feel both invincible and just so helplessly wrecked, all at once. She’s smiling like a fool and switched on so hard and she can’t remember a time she’s ever felt this good or this, just… _alive_ before and… 

“I lo —“ 

Clarke swallows the words before they can get out, her eyes widening. _Oh shit._

Lexa raises up. “Hmm?” She’s still giggling.

Stumbling now, Clarke wills the shock out of her gaze as quickly as she can. Thankfully, her smile never went anywhere, at least, so it aids in the recovery effort; she thinks she’s managed to escape Lexa noticing her almost-slip. She can’t seem to do anything more than just shake her head in response to Lexa’s question, though. 

Lexa’s giggles subside. And then it’s like everything else around them slows down, too, and they just lose themselves in looking at each other for a moment. 

Clarke’s eyes drop down to Lexa’s mouth. “God, kiss me, please…” she breathes, already moving in.

And then they get lost all over again for a while, doing exactly just that.

It goes on until she hears Lexa make a somewhat startled sound, which makes Clarke pull back and blink up at her hazily, her head completely spinning from the way Lexa was just kissing her.

Lexa is looking at her chest. And the expression on her face is nothing short of _horrified._

That pulls Clarke out of the fog in an instant. “Wait, no. It’s okay…”

Lexa glances up at her, then right back down to her chest. “Clarke, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize —“

Clarke cups Lexa’s face between her hands, forcing her to make eye contact. “Hey. I mean it. It’s totally okay.” 

The concern in Lexa’s gaze doesn’t ease up one bit. 

“I bruise super easily,” Clarke continues, trying hard to get her to turn back from where she can see Lexa’s retreating to right now. She needs to get Lexa to understand she didn’t do anything wrong, and fast. _Please don’t go away on me…_

Clarke switches tactics. She holds Lexa’s eyes, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “I was a little too distracted with everything else going on to warn you about that. Religious experiences tend to do that to people, you know.”

A layer of confusion drops over Lexa’s face. 

“Pretty sure I saw a couple of different gods last night, Lexa. It qualifies.”

Thankfully, that lands, surprising a laugh out of Lexa. Which finally breaks the tension. 

She gives Clarke a rueful smile, then skims her fingertips over Clarke’s chest, remaining quiet as she studies the array of marks. There’s still some remorse in her eyes when she looks at Clarke again, but at least the abject alarm that was there a moment ago has dissipated. “You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“Promise. I wouldn’t say so otherwise.” 

Lexa nods. Then she leans down and places a gentle kiss on Clarke’s chest. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Something tumbles over inside of Clarke upon hearing those words. _Next time._

Lexa is already thinking about a next time. 

As an answer, when Lexa raises up — Clarke just guides her back to her waiting mouth, kissing her softly.

Soon enough, they’re still kissing, but not nearly as softly. 

And in no time at all, really…Lexa winds up getting Clarke right out of her clothes again.

 

****************************

They stay wrapped up in each other for as long as they possibly can, before the need to rise and get ready for rehearsal breaks them out of the hiding place they’ve carved out for themselves here, behind the shielding embrace of these walls. 

Before they’re forced to acknowledge the reality that _tomorrow_ has become _now_ , and they just have to get up and face it.

Clarke directs Lexa through the usual morning time necessities of her loft: bathroom, coffee, where they keep the spare towels if Lexa needs one, the lucky unopened toothbrush Clarke finds in their medicine cabinet. _(Lexa takes the toothbrush but opts to wait and shower at her place; she has to stop by there before rehearsal, anyway.)_ It’s all a little rushed because they’re running short on time, but none of it is uncomfortable or awkward. Lexa fits herself into Clarke’s surroundings effortlessly, fluidly; they move around the loft and around each other with the same kind of familiar ease they’ve grown into over the past weeks, bantering about everything and nothing at all as they both get dressed and prepare themselves to start the day. 

The spaces between all of that, however, are definitely heavier. 

Clarke catches Lexa watching her more than a few times. And when it happens, and Clarke sees the look on Lexa’s face…oh, she has no trouble at all deciphering what Lexa is thinking about. 

_(As for Clarke…well. She’s got it just as bad. So bad, in fact, that — at one point — she almost smashes face-first into her bedroom door when she spies Lexa bending over to tie her shoes.)_

Clarke walks Lexa down to the front entryway of her building. They’re quiet on the trip down. No more banter. But the heaviness is certainly there. 

As soon as Lexa’s hand closes around the door handle, though, something desperate and needy rises up in Clarke and she’s reaching out before she can even stop herself — grabbing Lexa around the waist and pulling her in, backing her up against the wall. Kissing her _hard._ It’s fierce and greedy and it gets so hot so fast and… _god, Clarke doesn’t want to let her go._ Lexa doesn’t seem to want her to let go, either. 

_But…ugh. We have to, goddamn it._

She can’t stand those two words. _Have to._

Clarke reluctantly slows them down, cooling off their kisses. She separates from Lexa’s lips with a groan, hugging Lexa to her and resting her forehead against her shoulder as Clarke tries to get her breathing back under control. 

They just stand there holding each other, neither of them saying anything for a long moment. 

“Alright,” Clarke finally sighs, leaning back and smoothing the wrinkles out of Lexa’s shirt as she talks. “Are you ready to do this?”

“I never thought I’d ever hear myself say this, but…not really,” Lexa replies softly, her eyes cast down, following the motion of Clarke’s hands. She pauses before she glances back up to Clarke. “You?”

Clarke’s mouth lifts in a half-hearted smile. “Not really.”

Lexa nods and reaches down, taking Clarke’s hand and intertwining their fingers. She places one last soft, lingering kiss on Clarke’s lips. 

Then she squares her shoulders and leads them back toward the entryway door again. 

When they step out onto the sidewalk, and Lexa spots the car idling at the curb, she turns to Clarke with a wary frown. “You didn’t.”

Clarke smirks at her. “I most certainly did.” She pulls Lexa towards the Uber, opening the back door as she says: “Lexa, you remember Frank, right? By the way, hi, Frank. Thanks for picking us up.”

Lexa gives the driver an embarrassed nod. Her eyes cut back to Clarke. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Nope, you’re wrong there. I can’t let you be late for work. I mean, word has it that the director over there doesn’t put up with that kind of nonsense. One of those real workaholic types, you know?” Clarke’s smirk flares up into a full-out grin, the tip of her tongue poking out.

Lexa drops her head and sighs, already seeing that she’s not going to win this round. She raises back up to Clarke, and the way she’s looking at her…

Clarke almost slips up again. The words are right there, caught in her throat, but etched all over her heart. Lexa must be able to see them. She can’t be hiding them very well.

Which is maybe why Lexa just closes her eyes for a second, and swallows hard. And maybe also why when she pulls Clarke in for one last hug, she’s shaking.

“I’ll see you soon,” Lexa says softly, her lips pressed to Clarke’s temple.

Clarke nods. She can’t trust herself to speak, not at that moment. Anything she’d say would just end up leading her back to something she can’t have right now. 

 

****************************

“So, listen…we need to talk,” Clarke mutters to herself as she walks through the lobby doors. “So, I have something to tell you all, and…no…”

She’s been rehearsing how she might break the bad news to Lincoln and O about Lexa putting a stop to their fundraising efforts during her entire walk over to the theater. What began as a legitimate attempt to best soften the impact of the shitty information she needs to deliver to them quickly turned into a kind of coping mechanism for the deluge of depression that crashed over her as soon as she watched Lexa leave this morning, and Clarke has been clinging to the distraction for dear life ever since. “So, we need to talk…”

“What did you say, Clarke?” Monty asks.

Clarke startles and looks up, twisting around to glance back at Monty, who she apparently just passed within mere inches of, and didn’t even see standing there. “Oh, hey, Monty. No…nothing.” She lobs some hand gesture at him that’s part wave and part half-forgotten Girl Scout salute, she thinks, then keeps going. “Sorry,” she calls over her shoulder.

She keeps her eyes on the floor as she makes her way to her dressing room, still muttering under her breath. If she can keep the imagined conversation going in her head, maybe she can block out what everything else inside of her is screaming to talk about, instead. 

_(Crossword clue: Four letters. Starts with ‘L’, ends with ‘a’. Very likely has Clarke’s entire heart in the palm of her magical, gorgeous hands.)_

Clarke passes a set of shoes in the hallway. She thinks they might belong to Miller, but she doesn’t look up to confirm. Just mumbles a: _“good morning”_ and carries on to her dressing room door. “So, listen, we need to talk…”

And when she steps inside of her dressing room, the first thing Clarke notices is…more shoes.

Not Octavia’s, though.

She halts, raising her eyes. 

_Welp, you had to have known this was coming, Griffin._

Anya. And even for her, she looks pretty fucking pissed.

 _Super._

Oddly enough, Clarke’s first response isn’t to run or fight back, but rather send up a quick request. Maybe she really did have a spiritual awakening last night, who knows. She’s pretty sure she’s called out for enough gods in the past 24 hours that a channel might have opened up out there somewhere. 

_Umm…if anyone’s listening? If she’s here to actually kill me, please just let her dump my body somewhere visible, okay? That’s not too much of an ask, is it?_

Then Clarke belatedly notices who’s slumped on the couch.

“Morning, sunshine,” Raven drawls, right before she takes another massive bite of the donut in her hands.

_Well, that’s promising. Maybe you’ve cheated Death another day, then._

Clarke cuts back to Anya. “What’s going on?”

Anya looks her up and down for a moment longer, her face curled into a sneer. 

“Ohmuhgah, would you stop wif the dramahtics?” Raven scolds her around a mouthful of donut, kicking out at Anya with a booted foot.

Anya sighs and rolls her eyes. Then she looks at Clarke, and says, no lie: “So, we need to talk.” 

And Clarke can’t help it. Some sort of stress threshold inside of her must break or something, because she just starts laughing.

Anya, however, does not seem to get why she finds that so amusing.

Which just makes Clarke laugh even harder.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Clarke finally manages, straightening up. “I’ve had a long damn night. What is it, Anya?”

Anya scowls at her for a moment longer, sending an uneasy glance over to Raven as if to say: _‘Is she alright?’_ before focusing on Clarke again.

“Look, I don’t like you much, but you and I are gonna have to just deal with it and figure it out, because...” She pauses, and Clarke can tell it’s absolutely killing her to say whatever she’s about to tell her. “I need your help.”

_I have to say, I did not see that coming._

“With what?” Clarke asks, already a little terrified of the answer.

“Keeping Lexa from making an awful, fucking mistake, that’s what.”


End file.
